But with the words Barbara ran into the room, for I had taken it upon myself to admit her, knowing that shadows slipped out through the window when Barbara came in at the door--in those days, I mean. She kissed them all three, though it seemed but one movement, she was so quick. And at once they saw the humour of the thing. “There's going to be no dinner,” laughed my father. “We are going to look surprised and pretend that it was yesterday. It will be fun to see their faces.” “There will be a very nice dinner,” smiled my mother, “but it will be in the kitchen, and there's no way of getting it upstairs.” And they explained to her the situation. She stood for an instant, her sweet face the gravest in the group. Then a light broke upon it. “I'll get you someone,” she said. “My dear, you don't even know the neighbourhood,” began my mother. But Barbara had snatched the latchkey from its nail and was gone. With her disappearance, shadow fell again upon us. “If there were only an hotel in this beastly neighbourhood,” said my father. “You must entertain them by yourself, Luke,” said my mother; “and I must wait--that's all.” “Don't be absurd, Maggie,” cried my father, getting angry. “Can't cook bring it in?” “No one can cook a dinner and serve it, too,” answered my mother, impatiently. “Besides, she's not presentable.” “What about Fan?” whispered my father. My mother merely looked. It was sufficient. “Paul?” suggested my father. “Thank you,” retorted my mother. “I don't choose to have my son turned into a footman, if you do.” “Well, hadn't you better go and dress?” was my father's next remark. “It won't take me long to put on an apron,” was my mother's reply. “I was looking forward to seeing you in that new frock,” said my father. In the case of another, one might have attributed such a speech to tact; in the case of my father, one felt it was a happy accident. My mother confessed--speaking with a certain indulgence, as one does of one's own follies when past--that she herself also had looked forward to seeing herself therein. Threatening discord melted into mutual sympathy. “I so wanted everything to be all right, for your sake, Luke,” said my mother; “I know you were hoping it would help on the business.” “I was only thinking of you, Maggie, dear,” answered my father. “You are my business.” “I know, dear,” said my mother. “It is hard.” The key turned in the lock, and we all stood quiet to listen. “She's come back alone,” said my mother. “I knew it was hopeless.” The door opened. “Please, ma'am,” said the new parlour-maid, “will I do?” She stood there, framed by the lintel, in the daintiest of aprons, the daintiest of caps upon her golden hair; and every objection she swept aside with the wind of her merry wilfulness. No one ever had their way with her, nor wanted it.