"Yes," said Roger, after a pause.

"Then suppose we go to her. I'm sleeping up there for the next few nights."

* * * * *

They found Edith in her living room. She had sent the nurse out, put the
children to bed, and left alone with nothing to do she had sat facing her
first night. Her light soft hair was disheveled, her pretty features pale
and set. But the moment Roger entered he saw that she had herself in hand.

"Well, father," she said steadily. "You'd better tell me about our affairs.
_My_ affairs," she corrected herself. When he had explained, she was silent
a moment, and then in a voice harsh, bitter, abrupt, "That will be hard on
the children," she said. On an impulse he started to take her hand, but she
drew a little away from him.

"The children, my dear," he said huskily, "will be taken care of always."

"Yes." And again she was silent. "I've been thinking I'd like to go up to
the mountains--right away," she continued.

"Just our idea," he told her. "Deborah will arrange it at once."

"That's good of Deborah," she replied. And after another pause: "But take
her home with you--will you? I'd rather not have her here to-night."

"I think she'd better stay, my dear."

"All right." In a tone of weariness. "Madge Deering called me up to-night.
She's coming in town to-morrow, and she means to stay till I go."

"I'm glad," he said approvingly. Madge had been a widow for years. Living
out in Morristown with four daughters to bring up, she had determinedly
fought her way and had not only regained her hold but had even grown in
strength and breadth since the death of her husband long ago. "I'm glad,"
he said. "You and Madge--" he paused.

"Yes, we'll have a good deal in common," Edith finished out his thought.
"You look tired, dad. Hadn't you better go home now?" she suggested after a
moment.

"Yes," said Roger, rising. "Good-night, my child. Remember."

In the outer hallway he found Deborah with Laura. Laura had been here
several times. She was getting Edith's mourning.

"There's a love of a hat at Thurn's," she was saying softly, "if only we
can get her to wear it. It's just her type." And Laura drew an anxious
breath. "Anything," she added, "to escape that hideous heavy crepe."

Roger slightly raised his brows. He noticed a faint delicious perfume that
irritated him suddenly. But glancing again at his daughter, trim, fresh and
so immaculate, the joy of life barely conce