tant eyes with a softening in his own keen ones. The hint of a
laugh curved the corners of her lips as his smiled broadly. It was all
the truce necessary. Charlotte's sulks never lasted longer than Lanse's
impatience.

They laid aside their instruments and gathered round their father.
Graceful, brown-eyed Celia sat down beside him; Charlotte's curly black
hair mingled with his heavy iron-gray locks as she perched upon the arm
of his chair, her scarlet flannel arm under his head. The youngest boy,
Justin, threw himself flat on the hearth-rug, chin propped on elbow,
watching the fire; sixteen-year-old Jeff helped himself to a low stool,
clasping long arms about long legs as his knees approached his head in
this posture; and the eldest son, pausing, drew up a chair and sat down
to face the group.

"Now for it," he said. "It looks serious--a consultation of the whole.
Mayn't we have mother to back us?"

"I've sent mother to bed," Mr. Birch explained. "She wanted to come down
to hear you play, but I wouldn't let her. And indeed there are
moments--" He glanced quizzically at his eldest son.

"Yes, sir," Lansing responded, promptly. "There are moments when the
furnace pipes convey up-stairs as much din as she can bear."

Mr. Birch sat looking thoughtfully into the fire for a minute or two.

He began at last, gently, "Celia--has mother seemed quite strong to you
of late?"

"Mother--strong?" asked Celia, in surprise. "Why, father, isn't she?
She--had that illness last winter, and was a long time getting about,
but she has seemed well all summer."

Their eyes were all upon his face. Even young Justin had swung about
upon his elbows and was regarding his father with attention. They
waited, startled.

"I took her to Doctor Forester to-day, and he--surprised me a good deal.
He seemed to think that mother must not spend the coming winter in this
climate. Don't be alarmed; I don't want to frighten you, but I want you
to appreciate the necessity. He thinks that if mother were to have a
year of rest and change we need have no fears for her."

"Fears!" repeated Lansing, under his breath. Was it possible that
anything was the matter with mother? Why, she was the central sun about
which their little family world moved! There could not--must not--be
anything wrong with mother!

"Tell us plainly, father," urged Celia's soft voice. She was pale, but
she spoke quietly.

Charlotte, at the first word of alarm, had turned her face