But after all that excitement Mother Marshall could not sleep.  She lay quietly beside Father in the old four-poster and planned all about that room.  She must get Sam Carpenter to put in some little shelves each side of the windows, and a wide locker between for a window-seat, and she would make some pillows like those in the magazine pictures.  She pictured how the girl would look, a dozen times, and what she would say, and once her heart was seized with fear that she had not made her letter cordial enough.  She went over the words of the young man’s letter as well as she could remember them, and let her heart soar and be glad that Stephen had touched one life and left it better for his being in the university that little time.

Once she stirred restlessly, and Father put out his hand and touched her in alarm: 

“What’s the matter, Rachel?  Aren’t you sleeping?”

“Father, I believe we’ll have to get a new rug for that room.”

“Sure!” said Father, relaxing sleepily.

“Gray, with pink rosebuds, soft and thick,” she whispered.

“Sure! pink, with gray rosebuds,” murmured Father as he dropped off again.

They made very little of breakfast the next morning; they were both too excited about getting off early; and Mother Marshall forgot to caution Father about going at too high speed.  If she suspected that he was running a little faster than usual she winked at it, for she was anxious to get to the stores as soon as possible.  She had arisen early to read over the article in the magazine again, and she knew to a nicety just how much pink and white she would need for the curtains and cushions.  She had it in the back of her mind that she meant to get little brass handles and keyholes for the bureau also.  She was like a child who was getting ready for a new doll.

It was not until they were on their way back home again, with packages all about their feet, and an eager light in their faces, that an idea suddenly came to both of them—­an idea so chilling that the eagerness went out of their eyes for a moment, and the old, patient, sweet look of sorrow came back.  It was Mother Marshall who put it into words: 

“You don’t suppose, Seth,” she appealed—­she always called him Seth in times of crisis—­“you don’t suppose that perhaps she mightn’t want to come, after all!”

“Well, I was thinking, Rachel,” he said, tenderly, “we’d best not be getting too set on it.  But, anyhow, we’d be ready for some one else.  You know Stevie always wanted you to have things fixed nice and fancy.  But you fix it up.  I guess she’s coming.  I really do think she must be coming!  We’ll just pray about it and then we’ll leave it there!”

And so with peace in their faces they arrived at home, just five minutes before the painter was due, and unloaded their packages.  Father lifted out the big roll of soft, velvety carpeting, gray as a cloud, with moss roses scattered over it.  He was proud to think he could buy things like this for Mother.  Of course now they had no need to save and scrimp for Stephen the way they had done during the years; so it was well to make the rest of the way as bright for Mother as he could.  And this “Bonnie” girl!  If she would only come, what a bright, happy thing it would be in their desolated home!