Father put out his hand and touched her
in alarm:

"What's the matter, Rachel? Aren't you sleeping?"

"Father, I believe we'll have to get a new rug for that room."

"Sure!" said Father, relaxing sleepily.

"Gray, with pink rosebuds, soft and thick," she whispered.

"Sure! pink, with gray rosebuds," murmured Father as he dropped off
again.

They made very little of breakfast the next morning; they were both too
excited about getting off early; and Mother Marshall forgot to caution
Father about going at too high speed. If she suspected that he was
running a little faster than usual she winked at it, for she was anxious
to get to the stores as soon as possible. She had arisen early to read
over the article in the magazine again, and she knew to a nicety just
how much pink and white she would need for the curtains and cushions.
She had it in the back of her mind that she meant to get little brass
handles and keyholes for the bureau also. She was like a child who was
getting ready for a new doll.

It was not until they were on their way back home again, with packages
all about their feet, and an eager light in their faces, that an idea
suddenly came to both of them--an idea so chilling that the eagerness
went out of their eyes for a moment, and the old, patient, sweet look of
sorrow came back. It was Mother Marshall who put it into words:

"You don't suppose, Seth," she appealed--she always called him Seth in
times of crisis--"you don't suppose that perhaps she mightn't _want_ to
come, after all!"

"Well, I was thinking, Rachel," he said, tenderly, "we'd best not be
getting too set on it. But, anyhow, we'd be ready for some one else. You
know Stevie always wanted you to have things fixed nice and fancy. But
you fix it up. I guess she's coming. I really do think she must be
coming! We'll just pray about it and then we'll leave it there!"

And so with peace in their faces they arrived at home, just five minutes
before the painter was due, and unloaded their packages. Father lifted
out the big roll of soft, velvety carpeting, gray as a cloud, with moss
roses scattered over it. He was proud to think he could buy things like
this for Mother. Of course now they had no need to save and scrimp for
Stephen the way they had done during the years; so it was well to make
the rest of the way as bright for Mother as he could. And this "Bonnie"
girl! If she would only come, what a bright, happy thing it would be in
their desol