children laughed shakily as she exhibited the sooty handkerchief.

"Mother's crying for joy and gratitude and relief, Junior!" she
said. "Why,' and her reassuring voice was a tonic to the children,
"Why, what do Dad and I care about an old house!" she said
cheerfully. "We'd rather have ten houses burn down than have one
of you children sick, even for a day!"

"Don't you care?" exulted Anne between two violent kisses, her
lips close to her mother's, her thin arms tight about her mother's
neck.

"We care about you, and the boys, and the baby, Anne," said Bert,
"but that's all. Why, I sort of think I'm glad to see that house
burn down! It used to worry Mother and me a good deal, and now it
won't worry us any more! How about that, Mother?"

And his reddened eyes, in his soot--and perspiration-streaked
face, met Nancy's with the old smile of fun and courage, and her
eyes met his. Something the children missed passed between them;
hours of conciliatory talk could not have accomplished what that
look did, years of tears and regret would not so thoroughly have
washed away the accumulated burden of heartache and resentment and
misunderstanding.




Chapter Thirty-four