“It would have been thirty-five years this November,” Mrs. Toland presently said.  “We were engaged in August and married in November.  Marriage is a wonderful thing, Julia—­it’s a wonderful thing!  Papa was very much smarter than I am—­I always knew that!  But after a while people come to love each other partly for just that—­the differences between them!  And you look back so differently on the mistakes you have made.  I’ve always been too easy on the girls, and Ned, too, and Papa knew it, but he never reproached me!” She wiped her eyes quietly.  “You must have had a sensible mother, Julie,” she added, after a moment; “you’re such a wise little thing!”

“I don’t believe she was very wise,” Julia said, smiling, “any more than I am!  I may not make the mistakes with Anna that Mama made with me, but I’ll make others!  It’s a sort of miracle to see her now, so brave and good and contented, after all the storms I remember.”

Mrs. Toland did not speak for a few moments, then she said: 

“Julie, Jim’s like a son of my own to me.  You’ll forgive a fussy old woman, who loves her children, if she talks frankly to you?  Don’t throw away all the future, dear.  Not to-day—­not to-morrow, perhaps, but some time, when you can, forgive him!  He’s changed; he’s not what he used to be—–­”

Tears were in Julia’s eyes now; she slipped to her knees beside Mrs. Toland’s chair, and they cried a little together.

“I came to see him,” whispered Julia.  “Where is he?”

“He came in about fifteen minutes ago.  He’s packing.  You know his room—–­”

Julia mounted the stairs slowly, noiselessly.  It was quite dark now throughout the airy, fragrant big halls, but a crack of light came from under Jim’s door.

She stood outside for a few long minutes, thrilling like a bride with the realization that she had the right to enter here; where Jim was, was her sanctuary against the world and its storms.

She knocked, and Jim shouted “Come in!” Julia opened the door and faced him across a room full of the disorder of packing.  Jim was in his shirt sleeves, his hair rumpled and wild.  She slipped inside the door, and shut it behind her, a most appealing figure in her black gown, with her uncovered bright hair loosened and softly framing her April face.

“Jim,” she said, her heart choking her, “will you take Anna and me with you?  I love you—–­”

There was time for no more.  They were in each other’s arms, laughing, crying, murmuring now and then an incoherent word.  Julia clung to her husband like a storm-driven bird; it seemed to her that her heart would burst in its ecstasy of content; if the big arms about her had crushed breath from her body she would have died uncaring.

Jim kissed her wet cheeks, her tumbled hair, her red lips that so willingly met his own.  And when at last the tears were dry, and they could speak and could look at each other, there was no need for words.  Jim sat on the couch, and Julia sat on his knee, with one arm laid loosely about his neck in a fashion they had loved years ago, and what they said depended chiefly upon their eyes and the tones of their voice.