CHAPTER XXVI.
HOW HAPPINESS RETURNED TO THE LAZY A When Lite rapped with his knuckles on the door of the room where she was waiting, Jean stood with her hands pressed tightly over her face, every muscle rigid with the restraint she was putting upon herself.
For Lite this three-day interval had been too full of going here and there, attending to the manifold details of untangling the various threads of their broken life-pattern, for him to feel the suspense which Jean had suffered.

She had not done much.

She had waited.

And now, with Lite and her dad standing outside the door, she almost dreaded the meeting.

But she took a deep breath and walked to the door and opened it.
"Hello, dad," she cried with a nervous gaiety.