At this moment the door was thrown open, and Dora herself appeared on the doorstep. Dora, in her best Sunday frock, which was shabby enough, to be sure; her hair freshly plaited, and her small round face shining with soap and water. “Here she is!” cried Dora, dancing frantically up and down on the low doorstep, “_hier kommt das Mütterchen!_” And then came a sudden rush of great legs and small legs; legs in petticoats, kilts, and cut-over trousers; little Paul scrambling after, last of all, while the baby, left alone upon the front-room floor, contributed a wail instead of her personal presence, but all the legs distanced by one pair in gray pantaloons rudely patched upon the knees, the arms belonging whereunto straightway lifted poor weary Tina off her feet, while bearded lips covered her face with kisses. “My Tina!” cried Paul Kellar wildly; “I have come home for thee and the little ones, with money, too, plenty of it, to carry you all away into the golden West, where there is work for all and money for all, Tina.” It was like a dream to the poor tired soul, the bright smiles and festive appearance of the children, whom Dora had washed and combed into agonized tidiness; the warmth of the cheerful fire, and the plentiful meal which handy little Otto had ordered with such pride from “Prices.” She sat as one half asleep, in a great cushioned chair, and heard how her Paul, while his partner kept possession of their “claim,” had been herder for a neighboring ranchman, and so had earned money enough to bring his family out. It was strange to feel that all responsibility had been lifted from her shoulders; that she need not struggle so sorely against this deadly weariness, but could safely afford herself a day or two of utter rest. And even the labor of packing and sending off her household goods, and the long journey that must follow seemed bagatelles to Tina. Had not Paul come home? Paul, with his strong arms and loving heart! Paul, who might be passionate now and then,—he took that after his mother,—but who had never let her tire herself with work that he was able to do. But she could not swallow a morsel of the nice supper they had ready; she was too tired to eat; only she drank a cup of tea, and then leaned back in her great chair, with the baby at her breast, watching them in weary happiness. “But you can never nurse that great girl, unless you eat,” said Paul, in distressed perplexity; “you should feed her, Christina.” “Dora feeds her when I am away,” she said, smiling happily, “but I like to give her her supper when I come home. The touch of her soft lips seems to rest me, Paul.” “Only in reality it does nothing of the kind,” said Paul, with severe common sense; “it is but another drain upon your strength. She thrives, however; a fine baby, to be sure!” “And she crawls,” said the proud mother; “she crawls already, about the floor; in another month or so she will walk. We have good children, Paul.”