And now he felt the approach at last of another season of quiet, one of those uneventful times which come in family histories. As he washed and dressed for dinner, one night a little later, he thought with satisfaction, “How nicely things are smoothing out.” His dressing for dinner, as a rule, consisted in changing his low wing collar and his large round detachable cuffs; but to-night he changed his cravat as well, from a black to a pearl gray one. He hoped the whole winter would be pearl gray.

The little storm which Edith had raised over John’s presence in the house had been allayed. Deborah had talked to John, and had moved him with his belongings to a comfortable sunny room in the small but neat apartment of a Scotch family nearby. And John had been so sensible. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” he had answered simply, when in the office Roger had asked him about his new home. So that incident was closed. Already Edith was disinfecting John’s old room to her heart’s content, for George was to occupy it now. She was having the woodwork repainted and a new paper put on the walls. She had already purchased a small new rug, and a bed and a bureau and one easy chair, and was making a pair of fresh pretty curtains. All right, let her do it-if only there could be peace in the house.

With his cravat adjusted and his thick-curling silver hair trim from having just been cut by “Louis” over at the Brevoort, Roger went comfortably down to his dinner. Edith greeted him with a smile.

“Deborah’s dining out,” she said.

“Very well,” he replied, “so much the better. We’ll go right in-I’m hungry. And we’ll have the evening to ourselves. No big ideas nor problems. Eh, daughter?” He slipped his hand in hers, and she gave it a little affectionate squeeze. With John safely out of the way, and not only the health of her children but their proper schooling assured, Edith was herself again, placid, sweet and kindly. And dinner that night was a cheerful meal. Later, in the living room, as Roger contentedly lit his cigar, Edith gave an appreciative sniff.

“You do smoke such good cigars, father,” she said, smiling over her needle. And glancing up at her daughter, “Betsy, dear,” she added, “go and get your grandfather’s evening paper.”

In quiet perusal of the news he spent the first part of his evening. The war did not bother him to-night, for there had come a lull in the fighting, as though even war could know its place. And times were better over here. As, skipping all news from abroad his eye roved over the pages for what his business depended upon, Roger began to find it now. The old familiar headliness were reappearing side by side-high finance exposures, graft, the antics and didos cut up by the sons and daughters of big millionaires; and after them in cheery succession the Yale-Harvard game, a new man for the Giants, a new college building for Cornell, a new city plan for Seattle, a woman senator in Arizona and in Chicago a “sporting mayor.” In brief, all over the U.S.A., men and women old and new had risen up, to power, fame, notoriety, whatever you chose to call it. Men and women? Hardly. “Children” was the better word. But the thought did not trouble Roger to-night. He had instead a heartening sense of the youth, the wild exuberance, the boundless vigor in his native land. He could feel it rising once again. Life was soon to go on as before; people were growing hungry to see the names of their countrymen back in the headlines where they belonged. And Roger’s business was picking up. He was not sure of the figure of his deficit last week-he had always been vague on the book-keeping side-but he knew it was down considerably.

When Betsy and George had gone to bed, Roger put down his paper.

“Look here, Edith,” he proposed, “how’d you like me to read aloud while you sew?” She looked up with a smile of pleased surprise.

“Why, father dear, I’d love it.” At once, she bent over her needle again, so that if there were any awkwardness attending this small change in their lives it did not reveal itself in her pretty countenance. “What shall we read?” she affably asked.

“I’ve got a capital book,” he replied. “It’s about travel in Japan.”

“I’d like nothing better,” Edith replied. And with a slight glow of pride in himself Roger took his book in hand. The experiment was a decided success. He read again the next night and the next, while Edith sat at her sewing. And so this hour’s companionship, from nine to ten in the evening, became a regular custom-just one hour and no more, which Roger spent with his daughter, intimately and pleasantly. Yes, life was certainly smoothing out.

Edith’s three older children had been reinstated in school. And although at first, when deprived of their aid, she had found it nearly impossible to keep her two small boys amused and give them besides the four hours a day of fresh air they required, she had soon met this trouble by the same simple process as before. Of her few possessions still unsold, she had disposed of nearly all, and with a small fund thus secured she had sent for Hannah to return. The house was running beautifully.

Christmas, too, was drawing near. And though Roger knew that in Edith’s heart was a cold dread of this season, she bravely kept it to herself; and she set about so determinedly to make a merry holiday, that her father admiring her pluck drew closer still to his daughter. He entered into her Christmas plans and into all the conspiracies which were whispered about the house. Great secrets, anxious consultations, found in him a ready listener.

So passed three blessed quiet weeks, and he had high hopes for the winter.