THERE was a dead silence. There was no doubt about it that Tom Marcey was in earnest. The children ate with downcast eyes. You could see even a tear coursing slowly down Sara's smooth cheek. Tom Marcey drew a long breath and smiled at Alice.
"Alice," he said, "I've been thinking you ought to go and take a vacation,—anyway go off for a week—go off for a week-end. You need a change."
"Maybe I will," she reflected.
The children still were quiet after their father's outburst.
"What peace!" said Tom. "Beautiful old times those when children were seen and not heard."
"Yes, it's peaceful now," said Alice pessimistically, "but what of this afternoon? What's to prevent my cousin Melinda coming? What's to prevent those awful people that took such a fancy to you last year descending? What's to prevent an influx of those relatives of yours in Pennsylvania any minute? Do you realize that I've got any number of second cousins scattered around Boston and its suburbs? Why shouldn't they come? Look what's come this month already. Think what it's done to the family! Look what it's done to the bills! There's no security any more in living in the country. Space isn't any more. Formerly, when people whom you didn't like were tucked securely away in some obscure place you could be pretty sure you wouldn't see them. Now look at it! Here we are swarmed over by Mullinses one day—what's to keep off the Brewsters?"
