THE day had come: the eventful day when Mr. Kayll’s case was to be heard again. The children knew nothing whatever about the law, but they had gathered from their mother that Tuesday would decide their father’s fate, and either set him free to come back to them, or—or something too dreadful even to be imagined would happen. But no one would allow this last thought a moment’s entrance. He would come back, though there was no home to come to, except in the sense that any place is home where all those we love are assembled.

It was all like a strange dream. Who would have thought a week ago yesterday, when Mr. Kayll went out, promising not to be late, that he would never stand under that roof again.

Yet Madge, philosophical as ever, felt that it did not matter, that nothing really mattered since they were all alive and well, so long as father came back. They would all work hard, and if they could earn enough to live upon, surely they need not be unhappy. The troubles of having to pinch, and save, and wear shabby clothes that used once to look too heavy to be borne, seemed so absurdly light, now that she had faced the far worse troubles of nearly losing first one, then another of those she loved more than she herself knew.

Madge had only the two little girls and the baby to share her suspense, for Bob and Jem knew that they could not do better than go to their work; and Jack, who had a holiday, as he was to appear as a witness, had gone with his mother to the police-court. She felt very lonely and nervous. It had seemed so hard not to be able to go too.

The little girls had been for a long ramble, and had succeeded in finding a few sickly Londony wild-flowers, which they were putting in a glass on the table to give a more cheerful look to the bare unfurnished room. Madge herself had done all she could to brighten it, trying meanwhile not to think regretfully of the little old parlour with its shabby furniture and threadbare carpet full of holes.

It was dull work waiting. There was so much depending on the result of this “hearing.” The question in the balance was, whether an hour or two would see them a reunited family, able through their love for each other to bear all hardships while they were together, or whether the same lapse of time would leave them crushed and broken by a blow greater than any they had ever felt—temporarily fatherless—disgraced—ruined, with no idea how or where in future they were to live.

It was little wonder that quiet stolid Madge was pale and flurried, and could not talk connectedly to her sisters, but answered their remarks almost at random.

She busied herself for a while in setting out the tea-things—a very mixed gathering of cups, mugs, and saucers, that were certainly not the most distant relations—then looked anxiously from the window. Next she sent Edie and Bessie up to wash their faces and brush their untidy hair. Then she cut some bread in readiness, looked at the baby critically, decided that for such an occasion as this he certainly ought to wear that clean pinafore which she washed out and “got up” so carefully this morning, carried him upstairs, put it on, and smoothed the yellow down that she called his hair.

“Oh, dear, if they would only come!” she sighed, as she coaxed this yellow down to stand up in a little crest from baby’s forehead to his crown with a peculiar twist round of the brush which she stroked upwards from the parting over his ears. “How nice you look, you darling! I hope they’ll come before you crumple the pinafore and make yourself untidy again. There, now, don’t put the brush-handle in your mouth, or you’ll make yourself ill as you did before.”

She stopped and looked at him, then held her breath and listened, for she thought she heard an exclamation in Bessie’s voice. An instant’s pause, and this was followed by a rush of feet into the passage, for the two little girls had been watching from the window, and here were the expected arrivals at last. Her heart beat fast, but she stood still, listening. Had they returned with or without father?

With! There was his voice! Madge snatched the baby from the chair on which she had placed him while she improved his personal appearance, and, kissing him ecstatically in her delight, she darted down the stairs as fast as she dared with such a burden.

At last! At last! There was her father, just inside the door, looking exactly the same as ever, with his old smile, and the shiny bald place on his head, and the dear shabby old brown coat. There he was, hugging each child in turn, and then stopping to take her and the baby both into his arms.

“Well, here’s Madgie, then!” he said. “How are you, old woman? And here’s the young scamp that’s been frightening you all so much;” and he took the baby from her, and carried him into the sitting-room. “Looks a little pale still, the young monkey.”

Close behind, and following him in, came Mrs. Kayll laughing, and trying to hide the fact that she was crying at the same time. And after her came Jack, who kept rather in the background, and was very silent and quiet in the midst of the joyous confusion.

“Well, here I am again,” said Mr. Kayll, when the kissing and shaking of hands and general embracing were over, as he sat down on a box with the baby on one knee, Bessie on the other, and Edie with her arms round his neck from behind. “And time, too, I think. Nice goings-on your mother’s been telling me about. I see you’re not fit to be trusted without me. In one week you’ve made the baby very ill, pulled the house down, and drowned the furniture!”

The children laughed, and poured into his ear a stream of information about the storm, and one thing and another, until he was nearly deafened, and announced that he was very hungry and wanted his tea, on which everyone else was discovered to be hungry too, and they settled down to that meal while the bustle subsided.

Then Mr. Kayll asked a hundred questions, which everybody answered at once, so that he found it difficult to understand any of the replies. After which it became his turn to be questioned, and to tell his adventures from the very beginning, describing how he had been taken to the police-cell, while the true thieves got away scot-free.

“And I really think,” he said in conclusion, “that in spite of everything the owner of that shop still believes me to be the real burglar, and a most desperate character into the bargain.”At which they all laughed as though it were the best joke in the world. And the more they looked at the simple kind-hearted cheery little man, the more amusing it seemed. Even Mrs. Kayll, who had almost forgotten how to smile during the past week, laughed till the tears came into her eyes again, and startled the baby so much by such an unwonted proceeding, that he puckered up his face for a cry, and had to be comforted, and kissed, and fed with spoonfuls of tea from his father’s cup until he recovered his spirits.

Soon after Jem came in, and then Bob, entering nervously, uncertain whether there was pleasure or sorrow in store, and then hurrahing for joy. And, of course, everything had to be explained again, so that there was little pause from talking until it grew late, and the younger ones had to go to bed.

Before he said good-night, Jack found an opportunity to speak to his father aside. His voice was rather unsteady as he said:

“Father, it was my fault. I am so sorry I—I—”

He could not get out another word, but turned away his head with a sob. His father signed to Bob, who was the only other occupant of the room, to leave them, which he at once did.

“Now, Jack,” said he quietly, “I don’t quite understand.”

“It was that miserable two pounds,” the boy began, and then he could keep back the tears and sobs no longer, and had a hearty cry. Mr. Kayll laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, and waited till he was calmer.

“Poor old Jack!” he said then, half smiling, not so much from amusement, as because he was touched. He had never imagined his mischievous, laughing, careless Jack, who never seemed to have a softer side, taking this to heart as his own fault.

“You’re not angry?” the boy whispered, still with his hands over his face.

Mr. Kayll did not reply, but stooped and kissed him on the forehead. Jack looked up in astonishment; he had never received such a caress since he was old enough to wear trousers—then he flung his arm round his father’s neck, kissed him back again, and dashed out of the room and out of the house, knowing there would be no solitude for him upstairs.

Some time after, having walked off all traces of his weakness, he came back in the best of spirits, and feeling an intense desire to put a hair-brush in Jem’s bed, or some cobbler’s wax in one of his boots. But he restrained himself, for he had vowed inwardly never to play another practical joke, however harmless it might seem, and on the whole he kept to his resolution thenceforth.

Not that Jem ever again gave him so much provocation to tease him as he used a short time ago. The younger boy was quite altered, though no one knew what a shock he had received, for neither then nor later did he allude to what he had felt when he found himself alone in the flooded house. Yet it was plain that he was changed, and for the better. He said less and worked more in the future, and proved so steady and industrious in his new place, that his employer raised his wages again and again.“The darkest hour comes just before the dawn,” Mrs. Kayll used often to say afterwards, when she looked back upon that week of troubles; for, though they all had to work hard, to economize, and to deny themselves many little pleasures for a long time, they were able to keep out of debt, and by slow degrees to furnish once more a home of their own.

There was hardly one among these seven children, unless it were the baby, who was too young to understand, who had not learned more in those few days of disaster than in many months when the course of their life was smoother. Madge had grown wiser than to think again that those who talk the most of their affection, will prove to possess more than those who are less demonstrative, when the trial comes. Bob had learned not only to be strong, and to act for those younger and weaker than himself, but also to be tender and patient with the little ones. Jack had given up amusing himself at the expense of other people. Jem could not often thenceforward deceive himself into the belief that he was doing what was best for others, when he was really only gratifying his own selfish wishes. Edie and Bessie had been taught to make themselves of use in the house, instead of playing or idling while Madge did all the drudgery, and scarcely had a moment in which to rest.

With all these lessons learned by heart, the children, big and little, could not fail to be happier than of old. They understood each other’s value better, and loved each other more, so that they were more lenient to one another’s failings.

Mrs. Coleson brought Amy up to London at intervals of a few months to see them; for the little girl’s plan was realized, and she and her mother and sisters lived in the most countrified of country places, where everything was fresh and sweet, and the air was pure, and, instead of smelling of smoke, was laden with the scent of flowers. Here the youngest child had learned to walk at last, and was growing healthier day by day, while little Kitty was becoming a sturdy brown-cheeked rustic girl, and Amy was acquiring round cheeks, tinged with rose-colour.

But Mrs. Coleson used always to look with wonder on her cousin’s family.

“How is it,” she would ask, “that, in spite of the London atmosphere and everything, you all look so healthy, strong, and bright?”

And Mr. Kayll would answer:

“It’s because we all work hard, and don’t make ourselves unhappy about little troubles, for we know what great ones are like.”