"It's perfectly bully that you're back," she said, addressing herself
again to her mother. "Actually here all right,--a real Christmas
surprise. I'll take that up with Amy later; he's no business playing
such a trick. But it must tickle you to see how dee-lighted everybody
is! Oh, are you off, Aunt Josie? Hello, Lawr_i_nce!" She turned to wave
her hand to Hastings at the door, where Waterman, Fosdick, and he had
witnessed their wives' discomfiture. Those ladies were now attempting to
impart to their exits the majesty of righteous indignation.

Phil kicked an old carpeted footstool to the hearth, and dropped upon it
at her mother's feet.

"What an old fraud Amy is not to have told me!"

She waited for the ultimate sounds of departure, and kissed her fingers
to the closed door.

Then she raised her arms quickly and drew down her mother's head until
their cheeks touched.

"Thunder!" said Amzi, and left them together.

CHAPTER XVII

PHIL'S PERPLEXITIES

Phil reached home shortly before one, and called her father's name in
the hall without eliciting a response. The odor of roasting turkey was
in the house, and she noted that the table was set for four. The
maid-of-all-work was moulding cranberry jelly when Phil thrust her head
into the kitchen.

"There's going to be company for dinner," the woman explained. "Your pa
came in and told me so. He's gone down to his office for a minute."

Phil had not heard that they were to have guests. She stood in the
dining-room viewing the two extra places and wondering whom her father
had asked. Usually on holidays, when the rest of the family assembled at
Amzi's, the Kirkwoods had eaten their midday meal alone. If he had asked
the Bartletts' to share this particular Christmas feast it must have
been without premeditation, for she had herself visited the sisters on
her way to Amzi's, and nothing had been said about a later meeting. It
was not like her father to invite guests without consulting her. Her
mother's return had changed the world's orbit. Nothing was as it had
been; nothing seemed quite real. The house in Buckeye Lane, about which
so many happy memories clustered, was suddenly become distorted and all
out of drawing, as though she viewed it through a defective window-pane.
She went upstairs and glanced warily into her father's bedroom, as
though fearing to find ghosts there.

As she redressed her hair she regarded herself in the mirror with a new
curiosity.