They looked from one to the other. No one knew. “Funny,” laughed Ben, “but _I_ never thought of it.” “Nor I,” said Bart. “Hanged if I know,” piped Fred. “Don’t see no girls like you—” “Can I marry you, mammy?” laughed Tom, putting his arm around her as she came over to him. It was Tom she was most afraid of. For he was the youngest—and to her he was little short of a god. He had rebellious yellow hair and blue eyes—and little patches of whiskers were beginning to grow on his face. “Yes,” said his mother, sweeping his girlish lips with a kiss. “Me, too,” said “old” Ben—and he got it. And so on all around while John smiled in ecstasy. “Boys,” said the little mother, “there ain’t no girl _I_ ever saw that’s fit for any of yous—ain’t so, John?” John, of course, said yes. Tom got up, and, after turning her back to the rest wiped the tears from his mother’s eyes. “Boys,” announced the mother, “next Sunday there will be a turkey—and oyster stuffing!” As she said it she went over and let her arms glide gently around the neck of Will, who had not spoken on the subject of marriage. He caught her hands and drew her arms closer while he smiled up at her—a little sadly. She kissed him on the great forehead, and he understood. There had been a brief love affair for him, but it was over. Simply a successful rival. He never spoke of it—nor did any one else. But at least two—understood. III OPEN THE DOOR TO JOY—ALWAYS But Betsy had caught John surreptitiously saving—to buy the roof, he explained! “We—we’re gitting old, you know,” he excused. “Old!—” Betsy caught up her dainty skirts—very high—and pirouetted before him. “_Ein’, tswei, drei’, un’ fier. Dass macht sivve’_—” She stopped a moment. “John! Don’t you remember Eisenkrantz’s husking—where I first saw you? Oh, John, what a gawk you were! And yit—and yit—John, do you remember _how_ you danced that night? Come!” She pulled him about with her in a very clumsy attempt at waltzing. Then she pushed him off. “Oh, _you are_ gitting old. But me—” A few more mad whirls and she flung herself into his arms. “Say, John, that’s better than any roof.” “Er—what?” asked John, whose wits were often left behind by his wife’s. She came close and shouted in his ear: “Joy!” “Oh!” said John, patting her pretty hair. She slipped her arm about him. And then her voice was very soft and loving. “And our five boys! Such boys! Where is there another such five! If we _should_ get old—if we _should_ need a roof—why, John—there are our five handsome boys!” She cried a little, and John asked her for the thousandth time why she did it. “Why does a woman cry? For joy and sorrow—life and death—good and evil!” “Oh!” said John, once more.