"Papa has come home!" shouts a manly little fellow of four years, as
he almost drags his younger sister to the spot where he has heard
his father's voice.
The father's heart is gladdened by their innocent joy, as they cling
around him; but there is no time for delay. A kiss to each, one good
jump for the baby, the cup of coffee is hastily swallowed, the wife
receives her embrace with tearful eyes, and as the doctor springs
quickly into his chaise, and wheels around the corner, she sighs
deeply as she looks at the dressing-gown and slippers, and thinks of
the favourite dish which she had prepared for dinner; and now it may
be night before he comes again. But she becomes more cheerful as she
remembers that a less busy season will come, and then they will
enjoy the recompense of this hard labour.
The day wears away, and at length comes the happy hour when gown and
slippers may be brought into requisition. The storm still rages
without, but there is quiet happiness within. The babies are
sleeping, and father and mother are in that snug little parlour,
with its bright light and cheerful fire. The husband is not too
weary to read aloud, and the wife listens, while her hands are
busied with woman's never-ending work.
But their happiness is of short duration. A loud ring at the bell.
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