They continued to stare, now at him, now at one another, as he passed through the gate without any suggestion that they follow him, and up the driveway to the house. Whatever it was, he would tell their mother first, and their part was to wait. This they did with their ears strained for the slightest sound which might serve as a clue. Their mother was bustling about in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to the dinner for which Mary and Cynthia had already set the table. She was singing “Shall We Gather at the River,” but her sweet, plaintive assurance that all the Wescotts would “gather with the saints” was suddenly halted by the appearance of her husband in the doorway. Listening outside, the children were quick to catch the interruption. She was surprised, they knew, and they all felt for a moment an unexpressed thrill of pride that they had first experienced the sensation. Then-- “Why, Father!” they heard her say. Surely she also was not able to believe her eyes! A second or two of torturing silence, during which even breathing was painful. Then the draft of the stove slammed shut,--to keep the dinner from burning, they knew,--footsteps, and a streak of blue, their mother’s gingham, through the windows of the dining-room, the closing of a door. They knew what that meant. Their father had beckoned their mother to the library, the seat of all family councils, punishments, and Christmas secrets. They might have talked then--perhaps it is singular that they did not--but, since guesses seemed futile in the expectation of such a stupendous happening as all things prophesied, they continued to stand by the gate, staring alternately at one another and at the silent windows of the library. It is altogether safe to predict, however, that each of the four, from Mary to John, cast careful, inward glances over the things each had been doing for the space of a week. There was none of them who could not easily recall certain uncomfortable sessions introduced in some such manner; and yet within the memory of none of them had any misdemeanor, even of the most startling import, caused such initial behavior from their father. His sudden reappearance on the porch mercifully quieted certain misgivings in the mind of Roger, who was beginning to realize that, if he had counted ten, he should probably not have thrown the minister’s son off the back fence into a burdock clump, and in the heart of Cynthia, who had not felt right for a week because she had refused to lend _Little Women_ to the Closson children, who, being the offspring of a fisherman, smelt rather loathsomely of clams and fish. He came down the driveway, walking rapidly, his collar and tie still in their rightful places. As he passed the children by the white gate, he paused for a moment. “There’s company for dinner, children,” said he. “Please mind your manners.”