"The 'creek,'" Emma corrected firmly. "If you swam you needn't bathe. But go to bed." "It's too early," he complained. "Tad!" "Yes, Ma." Tad took himself toward the bedroom and emerged, yawning, for his good-night kiss. After he had gone, Emma smiled covertly. Tad, at eight, resented his own childhood fiercely. He was in an almost ferocious rush to grow up so he could avail himself of what, in his own mind, were all the privileges of adulthood. But he still would not go to bed without his mother's kiss. Emma seated herself at the table for the moment contented to rest. This, for her, was a time of contentment and soul-satisfying joy. She arose to each new day as though it were a complete new challenge that was sure to present its opportunities but might offer hazards, too. But the night always meant peace, and to know that her younger children were safe in bed brought happiness to Emma's heart. Now she knew only a little uneasiness because Joe was still absent. Barbara washed her hands and face, and let her satiny, tawny hair cascade down her shoulders. "Are we going to the Trevelyans' barn dance Saturday night, Mother?" "I think so." "Would you mind very much if I did not go with you?" Emma glanced curiously at her. "Why not?" "Well, Johnny Abend asked if he could take me. So did Billy Trevelyan and Allan Geragty. It would be fun if you let me go with one of them." Emma's eyes sparkled with humor. "And which of the three are you going to honor?" Barbara wrinkled her nose. "Allan Geragty is a smart aleck. I don't like him." Emma murmured, "Dear, a choice of only two escorts! Yes, you may go." "Thank you. I believe I'll set outside for a little while, Mother." "All right." Barbara opened the door and closed it quietly behind her. Emma knew that she was going only to look at the stars, and that was good because all young people should have trysts with stars. They might never pull one out of the sky and have it for their own, but they could always try. Emma fell into a mood of sober reflection. The years had brought her a fair measure of wisdom, and at thirty-two she knew a great deal which she had not known when, at sixteen, she became Joe's wife. Among other things, she knew now that her father had been a martinet. He knew, he thought, the only true way, and all about him must follow or risk his wrath. If Emma regretted any years of her married life, it was the first five when she had insisted that she must not leave her father. But she had honestly known of nothing else that she might do.