Peter put down the jar of preserved peaches outside. It was to be
a second surprise. Also he put down the flowers; they were to be
brought in last of all. One surprise after another is a
cumulative happiness. Peter did not wish to swallow all his cake
in one bite.
For once he did not slam the outer door, although he very nearly
did, and only caught it at the cost of a bruised finger. Inside
he listened. There was no clatter of dishes, no scurrying back
and forth from table to stove in the final excitement of dishing
up. There was, however, a highly agreeable odor of stewing
chicken, a crisp smell of baking biscuit.
In the darkened hall Peter had to pause to steady himself. For he
had a sudden mad impulse to shout Harmony's name, to hold out his
arms, to call her to him there in the warm darkness, and when she
had come, to catch her to him, to tell his love in one long
embrace, his arms about her, his rough cheek against her soft
one. No wonder he grew somewhat dizzy and had to pull himself
together.
The silence rather surprised him, until he recalled that Harmony
was probably sewing in the salon, as she did sometimes when
dinner was ready to serve. The boy was asleep, no doubt. He stole
along on tiptoe, hardly breathing, to the first doorway, which
was Jimmy's.
Jimmy was asleep. Round him were the pink and yellow and white
flower fairies with violet heads. Peter saw them and smiled.
Then, his eyes growing accustomed to the light, he saw Marie,
face down on the floor, her head on her arms.
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