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He was sitting at a small table apart when Rachel entered, a candle and
a large open Bible on it. A flock of grandchildren crowded round him,
two of them on his knees. He was showing them the pictures. To gaze
wonderingly on those pictures, and never tire of asking explanations of
their mysteries, was the chief business of the little Frosts' lives.
Robert's wife--but he was hardly ever called anything but Robin--was
preparing something over the fire for the evening meal. Rachel went up
and kissed her father. He scattered the children from him to make room
for her. He loved her dearly. Robin loved her dearly. When Robin was a
grown-up young man the pretty baby had come to be his plaything. Robin
seemed to love her still better than he loved his own children.
"Thee'st been crying, child!" cried old Matthew Frost. "What has ailed
thee?"
Had Rachel known that the signs of her past tears were so palpable as to
call forth remark from everybody she met, as it appeared they were
doing, she might have remained at home. Putting on a gay face, she
laughed off the matter.


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