truth, and would
likely find it and hand it out to the world again when they got it; like
the wise men hunting everywhere for a Saviour. Don't you remember,
Father?"

"I remember!" Father tried to speak cheerily, but his breath ended in a
sigh, for the carpet was heavy. Mother looked at him sharply and changed
the subject. It wasn't always easy to keep Father cheerful about
Stephen's going.

"You don't suppose we could get those curtains up to-night, too, do
you?"

"Why, I reckon!" said Father, stopping for a puff of breath and looking
up to the white woodwork at the top of the windows. "You got 'em all
ready to put up, all sewed and everything? Why, I reckon I could put up
those rods after I get across this end, and then you could slip the
curtains on while I was doing the rest. You don't want to get too tired,
Mother. You know you been sewing a long time to-day."

"Oh, I'm not tired! I'm just childish enough to want to see how it's all
going to look. Say, Father, that wasn't the telephone ringing, was it?
You don't think we might get a telegram yet to-night?"

"Not scarcely!" said Father, with his mouth full of tacks. "You see,
it's been bad weather, and like as not your letter got storm-stayed a
day or so. You mustn't count on hearing 'fore Monday I guess."

They both knew that that letter ought to have reached the hospital where
Bonnie Brentwood was supposed to be about six o'clock that evening, for
so they had calculated the time between Stephen's letters to a nicety;
but each was engaged in trying to keep the other from getting anxious
about the telegram that did not come. For it was now half past eight by
the kitchen clock, and both of them were as nervous as fleas listening
for that telephone to ring that would decide the fate of the pretty pink
room, whether it was to have an occupant or not.

"These white madras curtains look like there's been a frost on a cobweb,
don't they?" said Mother Marshall, holding up a pair all arranged upon
the brass rod ready to hang. "And just see how pretty this pink stuff
looks against it. I declare it reminds me of the sunset light on the
snow in the orchard out the kitchen window evenings when I was watching
for Steve to come home from school. Say, Father, don't you think those
book-shelves look cozy each side of the bay window? And wasn't it clever
of Jed Lewis to think of putting hinges to the covers on that
window-seat? She can keep lots of things in there! Wait til