The child stirred in her sleep, and her arms tightened around his neck.

“I love my mother—­and my dear daddy,” she murmured drowsily.

All night long Jim Dawson lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness with his little sleeping girl in his arms, not doubting his wife for a moment, but wondering—­all night long—­wondering!

The next evening Jim did not go for his mail, but one of the neighbors driving by volunteered to get it for him.

It was nearly midnight when the sound of wheels roused him from his reverie.  He opened the door, and in the square of light the horses stopped.

“Hello, Jim—­is that you?” called the neighbor; “I’ve got something for you.”

Jim came out bareheaded.  He tried to thank the neighbor for his kindness, but his throat was dry with suppressed excitement—­Kate had written!

The buggy was still in the shadow, and he could not see its occupant.

“I have a letter for you, Jim,” said his friend, with a suspicious twinkle in his voice, “a big one, registered and special delivery—­a right nice letter, I should say.”

Then her voice rang out in the darkness.

“Come, Jim, and help me out.”

Commonplace words, too, but to Jim Dawson they were sweeter than the
chiming of silver bells.....

An hour later they still sat over their late supper on the kitchen table.  She had told him many things.

“I just got lonely, Jim—­plain, straight homesick for you and the children.  I couldn’t stay out the week.  The people were kind to me, and said nice things about my work.  I was glad to hear and see things, of course.  Bruce Edwards was there, you know—­I’ve told you about Bruce.  He took me around quite a bit, and was nice enough, only I couldn’t lose him—­you know that kind, Jim, always saying tiresome, plastery sort of things.  He thinks that women like to be fussed over all the time.  The women I met dress beautifully and all talk the same—­and at once.  Everything is ‘perfectly sweet’ and ‘darling’ to them.  They are clever women all right, and were kind to me, and all that, but oh, Jim, they are not for mine—­and the men I met while I was away all looked small and poor and trifling to me because I have been looking for the last ten years at one who is big and brown and useful.  I compared them all with you, and they measured up badly.  Jim, do you know what it would feel like to live on popcorn and chocolates for two weeks and try to make a meal of them—­what do you think you would be hungry for?”

Jim Dawson watched his wife, his eyes aglow with love and pride.  Not until she repeated her question did he answer her.

“I think, perhaps, a slice of brown bread would be what was wanted,” he answered smiling.  The glamor of her presence was upon him.

Then she came over to him and drew his face close to hers.

“Please pass the brown bread!” she said.