“Well,” he smiled a little shamefacedly, “one thing you’ll like.  No booze down there.  Buff says there’s nothing in it; it can’t be done.  He says that’s the quickest way for a man to finish himself!”

The kitchen had been brightening for Martie with the swift changes of a stage sunrise.  Now the colour came to her face, and the happy tears to her eyes.  For the first time in many months she went into her husband’s arms, and put her own arms about his neck, and her cheek against his, in the happy fashion of years ago.

“Oh, Wallie, dear!  We’ll begin all over again.  We’ll get away, on the steamer, and make a home and a life for ourselves!”

“Don’t you want to go, Moth’?” Teddy asked anxiously.  Martie laughed as she wiped her eyes.

“Crying for joy, Ted,” she told him.  “Don’t sit there sneezing, Wallie,” she added in her ordinary tone.  Her husband asked her, dutifully, if she would object to his mixing a hot whisky lemonade for his cold.  After a second’s hesitation she said no, and it was mixed, and shortly afterward Wallace went to bed and to sleep.  At eight Martie tucked Teddy into bed, straightening the clothes over Margar before she went into the dining room for an hour of solitaire.

“Mrs. Bannister’s Boarding House”; she liked the sound.  The men would tell each other that it was luck to get into Mrs. Bannister’s.  White shoes—­thin white gowns—­she must be businesslike—­bills and receipts—­and terms dignified, but not exorbitant—­when Ted was old enough for boarding-school—­say twelve—­but of course they could tell better about that later on!

A little sound from the front bedroom brought her to her feet, fright clutching her heart.  Margar was croupy again!

It was a sufficiently familiar emergency, but Martie never grew used to it.  She ran to the child’s side, catching up the new bottle of medicine.  A hideous paroxysm subsided as she took the baby in her arms, but Margar sank back so heavily exhausted that no coaxing persuaded her to open her eyes, or to do more than reject with fretful little lips the medicine spoon.  She is very ill—­Martie said to herself fearfully.  She flew to her husband’s side.

“Wallie—­I hate to wake you!  But Margar is croupy, and I’m going to run for Dr. Converse.  Light the croup kettle, will you, I won’t be a moment!”

His daughter was the core of Wallace’s heart.  He was instantly alert.

“Here, let me go, Mart!  I’ll get something on—­”

“No, no, I’m dressed!  But look at her, Wallie,” Martie said, as they came together to stand by the crib.  “I don’t like the way she’s breathing—­”

She looked eagerly at his face, but saw only her own disquiet reflected there.

“Get the doctor,” he said, tucking the blankets about the shabby little double-gown.  “I’ll keep her warm—­”