Daffodil had sauntered slowly homeward. She looked for some one to call after her, but there was no sound. Oh, her mother did not care for her now, and Norry had not so much as coaxed her in and offered her a piece of cake. She entered the house rather sadly. Gran'mere was concocting some treat for supper. She just turned and said, "Were they glad to see your father?" "I don't know. I didn't go in." Then she crept up alongside of grandfather, and leaned her face down on his breast and cried softly. "Dear, what has hurt my little girl?" pushing aside the mop of hair. "Mother won't want me any more. Nor grandad, nor Norry, nor--nor any one;" and Daffodil seemed very lonesome in a great cold world, colder than any winter day. "Yes, I want you. Oh, they'll all want you after a day or two. And it's a great thing for your father to come home safe." "I don't believe I am going to like him. He isn't like what I thought." Grandfather smiled. "Wait and see what he is like to-morrow. It's almost night now, and things look different, cloudy-like. There, dear, don't cry when we are all full of joy." CHAPTER III WELCOME Neighbors kept dropping in, and the table was crowded at supper time. Hospitality was ungrudging in those days. Grandfather had the little girl close under his wing, but she had a curiously strange feeling, as if she was outside of it all. Then her mother said: "Wouldn't you rather go to bed, dear? The men will want to talk about battles, and things, not best for little girls to hear. When you are older they will interest you more." "Yes," she replied, and kissed grandfather. Then her mother undressed her and tucked her in her little pallet. "Oh, you _will_ always love me?" she cried, in a tremulous tone. "Always, always. And father, too." Even if other children should come, the years when Daffodil had been her all could never be dimmed. The mother shut the door softly. They were kindly enough, this conglomerate population, but rough, and the French strain in the Bradins had tended to refinement, as well as living somewhat to themselves. Daffodil cried a little, it seemed a comfort. But she was tired and soon fell asleep, never hearing a sound, and the company was rather noisy. When she woke, the door to the living room was partly open, and the yellow candlelight was shining through. Mornings were dark, for they had come to the shortest days. There was a curious rustling sound, and Dilly ran out in her little bare feet, though the carpet was thick and warm. Gran'mere was cooking, Barbe was washing dishes, Judy sat by the fire in a grave upright fashion. How white the windows were! "Oh, it's snow!" cried the little girl. "Are we snowed up, as grandad tells about? Why, we can't see out!" "Yes, it's a tremendous snow. Bring out your clothes, and let me dress you. Don't be noisy." The child seldom was noisy. She wondered at the request. And what had happened? She had a confused sense of something unusual in her mind.