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“Wasn’t that like her?” said Ann. They were all silent a moment. Then the visitor jumped up.

“Well, I must trot home to my deserted parent, my children,” she exclaimed briskly. “He rages if he comes in and doesn’t find me. But, if you ask me, I’ll be over later to help you, Rose. Every one in the world will be here for tea. And, meantime, make her rest, Ted. She looks tired to death.”

“I’ll see thee home, Mistress,” said Ted, gallantly, and Rosemary was left alone. Her brother, coming in again nearly an hour afterward, found her still in the same thoughtful attitude, her big eyes fixed upon space. He knelt, and put his arm about her, and she drooped her soft, cool little cheek against his, tightening her own arm about his neck. There was a little silence.

“What is it?” said the boy, presently.

“Nothing, Teddy. But you’re SUCH a comfort!”

“Well, but it’s SOMETHING, old lady. Out with it!”

Rosemary tumbled his hair with her free hand.

“I was thinking of–mother,” she confessed, very low.

His eyes were fast on hers for another short silence.

“Well,”–he spoke as if to a small child–“what were you thinking, dear?”

“Oh, I was just thinking, Ted, that it’s not fair. It isn’t fair,” said Rosemary, with a little difficulty. “Not only Dad and Bess and the maids, but you and I, too, we can’t help idolizing mamma. And sometimes we never think of mother–our own mother!–except as tired and sick and struggling–that’s all I remember, anyway. And mamma is all strength and sweetness and health.”

“I–I know it, old lady.”

“Oh, and Ted!–to-day, and sometimes before, it’s hurt me so! I can’t feel–I don’t want to!–anything but what I do to mamma, but sometimes–“

She struggled for composure. Her brother cleared his throat.

“She was so wistful for pretty things and good times, even I can remember that,” said Rosemary, with pitiful recollection. “And she never had them! SHE would have loved to stand there last night, in lace and pearls, bowing and smiling to every one. She would have loved the applause and the flowers. And it stings me to think of us, you and I, proud to be mamma’s stepchildren!”

“Dad worshipped mother,” submitted the boy, hesitatingly.

“Yes, of course! But he was working day and night, and they were poor, and then she was ill. I don’t think she managed very well. Those frightful, sloppy servants we used to have, and smoky fires, and sticky summer dinners–and three bad little kids crying and leaving screen doors open, and spilling the syrup! I remember her at the stove, flushed and hot. You think I don’t, but I do!”

“Yes, I do, too,” he assented uncomfortably, frowningly.

“And do you remember the Easter eggs, Ted?”

Theodore nodded, wincing.

“She forgot to buy them, you know, and then walked two miles in the hot spring weather, just to surprise and please us!”

“And then the eggs smashed, didn’t they?”

“On the way home, yes. And we cried with fury, little beasts that we were!” said Rosemary, as if unable to stop the sad little train of memories. “I can remember that awful Belle that we had, making her drink some port. I wouldn’t kiss her. And she said that she would see if she couldn’t get me another egg the next day. And then Dad came in, and scolded us all so, and carried her upstairs!”

She suddenly burst out crying, and clung to her brother. And he let her cry for a while, patting her shoulder and talking to her until control and even cheerfulness came back, and she could be trusted to go upstairs and bathe her eyes for lunch.

When the lunch bell rang, Rosemary went downstairs, to find her stepmother at the wide hall doorway with a yellow telegram in her hand.

“News from Bess,” said Mrs. Bancroft, quickly. “Good news, thank God! George wires that she and the little son are doing well. The baby came at eleven this morning. Dad’s just come in, and he’s telephoning that you and I will come over right after lunch. Think of it! Think of it!”