"I've been wondering if you're disappointed about your friend not
coming to-morrow, Mark?" said the tender voice.

"Oh, no-o!" said Margaret, hardily. "Mother--why are you up so late?"

"Just going to bed," said the other, soothingly. "Blanche forgot to
put the oatmeal into the cooker, and I went downstairs again. I'll say
my prayers in here."

Margaret went off to sleep again, as she had so many hundred times
before, with her mother kneeling beside her.



CHAPTER VII

It seemed but a few moments before the blazing Sunday was precipitated
upon them, and everybody was late for everything.

The kitchen was filled with the smoke from hot griddles blue in the
sunshine, when Margaret went downstairs; and in the dining-room the
same merciless light fell upon the sticky syrup pitcher, and upon the
stains on the tablecloth. Cream had been brought in in the bottle, the
bread tray was heaped with orange skins, and the rolls piled on the
tablecloth. Bruce, who had already been to church with Mother, and was
off for a day's sail, was dividing his attention between Robert and
his watch. Rebecca, daintily busy with the special cup and plate that
were one of her little affectations, was all ready for the day, except
as to dress, wearing a thin little kimono over her blue ribbons and
starched embroideries. Mother was putting up a little lunch for Bruce.