When the rockaway, driven by Larsen, at last came to the door with the Cub as honorary footman to see Miss Keith off and make sure that none of her twelve pieces of wonderfully assorted baggage went astray, she broke down completely, yet did not seem comforted or pleased with Brooke’s invitation to return if she changed her mind about matrimony, the final sniff that followed the sincere and cordial offer being more of scorn than of grief. Mrs. Lawton was now fast shaking off the state of being in a waking dream, in which she lived since the night of the calamity; and, once Miss Keith had gone, both mother and daughter began to taste the quiet joys of a companionship that the forced separation of the last few years of conventional city life had not only left undeveloped but unknown. Their intercourse was none the less sustaining because the things that they discussed were the bread-and-butter affairs of every day—whether the invalid should have chicken or mutton broth, and as to whether it was possible to make many of the dishes they desired with only half the ingredients the cook-book demanded, Mrs. Lawton’s experience of long ago and Brooke’s common sense deciding in the affirmative. In fact, the young mistress had not been working side by side with Mrs. Peck (who came to “accommodate” and instruct the day after Miss Keith left) a week before she was sure of what she had always suspected, that fully three-quarters of modern recipes for cooking are merely competitive struggles to see how much good material can be crammed into something totally unsuitable for the human stomach. Gradually, as the first week drew to a close, it happened that, after the Cub and Brooke had helped establish their father in his wheel-chair for the day, Mrs. Lawton went to and fro about the lower floor, dusting, adjusting, wiping dishes, watering the plants, and doing the thousand and one little things that make a woman a part of her home. Then later in the day she would wheel Adam Lawton into the kitchen perhaps, and, taking out her work-basket, do some of the sewing that was imperative to make the garments of the past even possible for present use. As to Adam Lawton himself, he was more alert and did not seem to doze as constantly as before, while his eyes wandered from object to object with a changeful expression unlike the apathy of his first conscious period. Before the seven days were completely rounded, three things had happened. Brooke heard her mother hum a snatch of the ballad “Jock o’Hazeldean,” as she snipped withered leaves from the plants in the kitchen window; she saw her father stroke Tatters’ head and finger his ears with his well hand; and Robert Stead, who now left their mail as he returned with his own from the village every morning, brought her, together with some belated foreign New Year’s cards, a flat, square package, spattered with foreign postmarks, addressed in an unknown hand, in care of Charlie Ashton, and evidently remailed by him.