"Why, father! Dearie!" Deborah cried "Oh, how well you're looking, dad!"
And she kissed him happily. "Oh, but I'm glad to have you back--"
"That's good," he said, and he squeezed her hand "Here, come to the light,
let me look at you." He saw her cheeks a little flushed, the gladness in
her steady eyes. "Happy? Everything just right?" His daughter nodded,
smiling, and he gave a whimsical frown. "No ups and down at all? That's
bad."
"Oh, yes, plenty--but all so small."
"Good fellow to live with."
"Very."
"And your work?
"It's going splendidly. I'll tell you about it this evening, after you give
me the news from the farm."
They chatted on for a short while, but he saw she was barely listening.
"Can't you guess what it means," she asked him softly, "to a woman of my
age--after she has been so afraid she was too old, that she'd married too
late--to know at last--to be sure at last--that she's to have a baby, dad?"
He drew back a little, and a lump rose in his throat.
"By George!" he huskily exclaimed. "Oh, my dear, my dear!" And he held her
close in his arms for some time, till both of them grew sensible.
Soon after she had gone to her room, he heard Allan coming upstairs. He
heard her low sweet cry of welcome, a silence, then their voices. He heard
them laughing together and later Deborah humming a song. And still thinking
of what she had told him, he felt himself so close to it all.
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