And so in the bustle and eagerness the disappointment over Carey was somewhat forgotten. They all worked away happily together until ten o’clock, painting and pounding and scrubbing; and, when they finally put up the brushes and went to bed, the kitchen was in a fair way toward reconstruction. The window-frames had lost their grimy, years-old green paint under a first coat of white; the doors had been sandpapered and primed; the side walls had been patched with plaster-of-Paris and received a coat of shellac. Everything began to look clean and hopeful. “Aw, gee! Carey don’t know what he’s missin’,” mourned Harry as he climbed reluctantly up the stairs, loath to leave till he had finished all the first coat, and persuaded to bed by his sister only on the ground that he wouldn’t want to get up in the morning. For three days Carey stayed away without a sign, and for two evenings Cornelia kept her family interested in the kitchen so that they did not notice the locked parlor door. It was a bit hard on Cornelia. She worked steadily all day, then worked again all the evening, and lay awake most of the night worrying about her brother. She was beginning to get dark circles under her eyes, and her father looked at her anxiously and asked her whether she didn’t think she was doing too much. But she managed to smile cheerfully and keep a brave front. She knew by the weary little wrinkles around his eyes that he too was lying awake nights, worrying about Carey. But the kitchen was beginning to take on the look of a lily, and was rapidly becoming a spot where the family loved to go and gaze around, so transforming is a little white paint. Later on the second afternoon Cornelia went to a telephone pay-station, and looked among the B’s for Barlock. When she had found it, she called up the one with the initials R. B., taking a chance between that and Peter, Mary, Silas, and J. J., tremblingly put in her nickel, and waited. It was a young girl’s voice, fresh and snappy, that answered her; for she had called the residence and not the business office; and she tried to control her voice and answer calmly as she asked whether Mr. Brand Barlock was at home. The girl’s voice at the other end was a trifle haughty as she answered: “No, he’s motored down to Baltimore. I don’t know when he’ll be home. Maybe two or three days. Who is this?”