“Right away?” shouted Dick so lustily that Mrs. Henderson popped her head in the door.  “Oh! beg your pardon,” she said; “I thought you wanted something.”

“Isn’t it lovely,” cried Mrs. Whitney, “to have a boy who is beginning to find his lungs?”

“Indeed it is,” cried the parson’s wife, laughing; “I always picked up heart when my children were able to scream.  It’s good to hear you, Dicky,” as she closed the door.

“Is he—­is he—­is he?” cried Dick in a spasm of excitement, “coming right straight away, mamma?”

“Next week,” said mamma, with happy eyes, “he sails in the Servia.  Next week, Dicky, my boy, we will see papa.  And here is the best part of the secret.  Listen; it has all been arranged that Mr. Duyckink shall live in Liverpool, so that papa will not have to go across any more, but he can stay at home with us.  Oh, Dicky!”

That “Oh, Dicky!” told volumes to the boy’s heart.

“Mamma,” he said at last, “isn’t it good that God didn’t give boys and girls to Mr. Duyckink?  Because you see if he had, why, then Mr. Duyckink wouldn’t like to live over there.”

“Mr. Duyckink might not have felt as your father does, Dicky dear, about having his children educated at home; and Mrs. Duyckink wants to go to England; she hasn’t any father, as I have, Dicky dear, who clings to the old home.”

“Only I wish God had made Mr. Duyckink and Mrs. Duyckink a little sooner,” said Dick reflectively.  “I mean, made them want to go to England sooner, don’t you, mamma?”

“I suppose we ought not to wish that,” said his mother with a smile, “for perhaps we needed to be taught to be patient.  Only now, Dicky, just think, we can actually have papa live at home with us!”

“Your cheeks are pink now,” observed Dick; “just the very pink they used to be, mamma.”

Mrs. Whitney ran to the old-fashioned looking-glass hanging in its pine-stained frame, between the low windows, and peered in.  “Do I look just as I did when papa went away six months ago, Dicky?” she asked, anxiously.

“Yes,” said Dick, “just like that, only a great deal nicer,” he added enthusiastically.

His mother laughed and pulled at a bright wave on her forehead, dodging a bit to avoid a long crack running across the looking-glass front.

“Here’s Dr. Fisher!” shouted Dick suddenly.  “Now, you old fellow, you,” and shaking his small fist at his lame leg, “you’ve got to get well, I tell you.  I won’t wait much longer, sir!” And as the doctor came in, “I’ve a secret.”

“Well, then, you would better keep it,” said Dr. Fisher.  “Good morning,” to Mrs. Whitney.  “Our young man here is getting ahead pretty fast, I should think.  How’s the leg, Dicky?” sitting down by him.

“The leg is all right,” cried Dick; “I’m going to step on it,” trying to get out of the chair.

“Dicky!” cried his mother in alarm.

“Softly—­softly now, young man,” said Dr. Fisher.  “I suppose you want me to cure that leg of yours, and make it as good as the other one, don’t you?”