“Why, sure!” said Father, tenderly.  “She’ll take it, I’ve no doubt.  She’s that kind, I should think.  And if she isn’t now, Mother, she will be after she’s been with you awhile!”

“Oh, now, Father!” said Mother, turning pink with pleasure.  “Come, let’s go up and see how the room looks at sunset!”

So arm in arm they climbed the front stairs and stood looking about on the glorified rosy background with its wilderness of cherry bloom about the frieze.  Such a transformation of the dingy old room in such a little time!  Arm in arm they went over to the window-seat and sat leaning stiffly against the two pink silk cushions, and looking out across the rosy sunset snow in the orchard, thinking wistfully of the boy that used to come whistling up that way and would never come to them so again.  Then, just as Father drew a sigh, and a tear crept out on Mother’s cheek (the side next the window), a long-hoped-for, unaccustomed sound burst out below-stairs!  The telephone was ringing!  It was Sunday evening at sunset, and the telephone was ringing!

Wildly they both sprang to their feet and clutched each other for a moment.

“I’ll go, Mother,” said Father, in an agitated voice.  “You just sit right here and rest till I get back!”

“No!  I’ll go, too!” declared Mother, trotting after.  “You might miss something and we ought to write it down!”

In breathless silence they listened for the magic words, Mother leaning close to catch them and trying to scratch them down on a corner of the telephone book with the stump of a pencil she kept for writing recipes: 

“Your wonderful invitation accepted with deep gratitude!”

“What’s that, Father?  Make him say it over again!” cried Mother, scribbling away. “’Your wonderful invitation—­(Oh, she liked it, then!) accepted’—­She’s coming, Father!”

“Will start as soon as possible!”

("Then she’s really coming!”)

“Probably Wednesday night.”

("Then I’ll have time to get some pink velvet and make a cushion for the little rocker.  They do have pink velvet, I’m sure!”)

“Will write.”

("Then we’ll really know what she’s like if she writes!”)

Mother Marshall’s happy thoughts were in a tumult, but she had her head about her yet.

“Now, make him say it all over from the beginning again, Father, and see if we’ve got it right.  You speak the words out as he says ’em, and I’ll watch the writing.”

And so at last the message was verified and the receiver hung up.  They read the message over together, and they looked at each another with glad eyes.

“Now let us pray, Rachel!” said Father, with solemn, shaken voice of joy.  And the two lonely old people knelt down by the little table on which stood the telephone and gave thanks to God for the child He was about to send to their empty home.