Before reaching Indiana Avenue he had decided on a course. If there were no lights in the house, he would drive on homeward. If there were he would stop. At this hour in the very early morning, unless something unusual had happened, there would of course be none. But there were lights. At sound of his approach, Pansy gave a little silvery yelp. Jennie opened the door before he had time to ring. "Come in, Bob. I saw your car from the window." In the living-room Gussie and Gladys, wearing their dressing-gowns, cried out their relief at seeing him. It was the situation Teddy had foreseen, in which they were all "up in the air." As usual, Gladys was the spokesman. "Oh, Bob, we’re so glad to have you. We didn’t know what to do. Momma—" A sob stopped her, but Jennie was more calm. "Momma’s gone, Bob. Gussie went into her room about half past ten to take her the glass of milk we always put by her bed, and she was asleep." They gathered round him as if he formed their rallying point. He took Jennie and Gussie each by the hand. Gladys held his coat by the lapel. "You’re not sorry, any of you, are you? She wanted to go; and she’s gone in the sweetest of all ways." "She won’t have to hear about Teddy," Gussie wept. "That’s a comfort, anyhow." Gladys laid her head against Bob’s breast. "No; but Teddy’ll have to hear about her." Bob saw the opportunity. "No, Gladys; Teddy will not have to hear about her." He let this sink in. "Teddy—_knows_." It was some seconds before Jennie and Gussie released his hands and Gladys let go his lapel. When they did they moved away silently. Gussie dropped on her knees at the arm of a big chair, bowing her head, and crying quietly. Jennie, a slim figure with hands behind her back, walked down the length of the room, staring at the curtained window toward Indiana Avenue. Gladys stood off, looking at Bob, nodding her head sagely, as she said: "I thought that’s what it meant when he didn’t want us to come. He liked it better without saying good-by. So we all do." She gave a big, sudden sob, controlling herself as suddenly. "We’re going to carry on, Bob. We’re not going to show the white feather"—there was another big sob, with another successful effort to keep it back—"we’re not going to show the white feather—any of us—just to please you." "Thank you, Gladys. It will please me. But there’s something that pleases me more. I’d like to tell all three of you about it." Jennie turned round from the window, coming back down the room. She was pale, but she didn’t cry. Gussie dried her eyes and was struggling to her feet when Bob laid his hand on her shoulder. "No, Gussie; stay where you are. I’ll sit down here." He dropped into the chair. "You come on this side, Jennie. Gladys—" But Gladys had already crouched at his feet, while Jennie, balancing Gussie, sank beside the other arm of the chair. Pansy sprang up to her place on his knee. He told them about Teddy and his mother—about Teddy’s vision and his own.