One day in late September, after a week's absence, trying a case at the county seat, Laurence was expected home. Nora dressed both the boys in clean white suits, combed their curls with nervous fluttering fingers, set them on the porch with injunctions not to stir and ran up to her own room to put on some adornment. The carriage drove up. Mary met Laurence at the door, and after his usual warm greeting stood a moment in the hall while he took off his coat and brought in his bags. Suddenly piercing shrieks sounded from the shrubbery. Both parents rushed out, to find the boys, just dragged out of a mud-puddle, daubed from head to foot and undergoing corporal punishment at the hands of Nora, whose angry shouts vied with their screams. Mary seized the children, ordered Nora away and received a rude answer; whereupon Laurence spoke sternly to Nora; and she turned white, trembled and fled to her room. Passing her door later Mary could hear her wild sobbing. She could hear too, while dressing the boys anew, that Laurence went in and spoke to Nora; could hear the firm curt tones of his voice.
Presently he came into the nursery, and she said:
"I really think I can't keep Nora. I can't have scenes like this."
"No, I've told her so," said Laurence, frowning. "I've told her that she can't speak to you like that, and that if she can't control herself she'll have to go."
He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no more at the time. Nora stayed in her room, and Mary gave the boys their supper and put them to bed. They were angelically good. As she was hearing their prayers, Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling figures and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. Prayers over, the boys wanted to romp with their father, whom they adored, who was always gay and playful with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, and went downstairs with his arm around Mary, whistling boyishly. Nora did not appear to serve the dinner, but her absence was hardly noticed. Laurence had much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, and was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took which would mean a big fee--a will contest, involving a large estate. He had taken it because the personality of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew and disliked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence held that a man had a right to leave his money as he pleased, and to disinherit a son who had offended him. He felt that he had been defending the just cause, and the elation of his victory was without blemish.