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father, not only courteous but squire to a wife who seemed to be always aware of his courtesies to her and to be wryly touched by them.
    He was sitting on the porch swing reading a book, but when he saw Glory coming he eased himself up and stood waiting for her with the gallant deference he showed to anyone over the age of twelve, and by which she had always felt flattered. Now she sensed a kind of condolence in it, though she tried not to. She tried not to wonder what he knew.
    “Splendid afternoon,” he said. “How are you? How is your father? Would you like to sit down?”
    She said, “We’re fine, I think. I can only stay for a minute, though. This morning Papa got a letter from Jack. He wanted me to tell you. I mean from Johnny.”
    “Oh yes. A letter from Jack.”
    “He says he’s coming home.”
    “Hm. Does he. How is your father taking this?”
    “It’s hard for him, I think. To know what to expect. Jack has never been the most reliable person in the world.”
    Silence again. “Did he say when he was coming? Did he say why?”
    “He said he would come in the next week or two. That’s about all.”
    “Well, that’s wonderful.” He said this without a trace of conviction. “Would your father feel up to a visit this afternoon?”
    “I think he would.”
    As he followed her down the walk to open the gate for her, he said, “It might be best if he doesn’t get his hopes too high.” Then they laughed. He said, “Well, there’s not much we can do about that.” But Glory had her own hopes, which were also too high—that this visit would happen at all, that it would be interesting, and that Jack would not remember her as the least tolerable, the most officious, the least to be trusted of his brothers and sisters. She thought and hoped he might hardly remember her.

    W HEN SHE CAME HOME SHE FOUND THAT HER FATHER had written his letter, addressed it, and sealed it. “Yes, I put a little check in there just to be sure. Travel is expensive these days. I hope it won’t offend him, but I thought it was a way to emphasize how eager we are to see him. I thought it was a good idea on balance. I’ll take it out if you think I ought to—”
    “He won’t be offended, Papa. You’ve always sent little checks.”
    “Well, I just worry he might not remember, you know, my eccentricities. I should have waited so you could take a look at what I wrote. I just thought we’d want to get it in the mail. He’ll be waiting to hear. If it is ‘not inconvenient.’ Imagine! We certainly don’t want him to worry about that!”
    “I’m sure he was just being polite.”
    “Very polite. Yes. He might have been writing to a stranger. But here I am finding fault.”
    She kissed his cheek. “I’ll take this to the post office.”
    “I believe it is quite legible. The address is clear enough, I think.” He said, “I worried about that, the way my hands were trembling there for a while. I should have let you look it over. I hope he’ll be able to read it.”
    “It will be just fine,” she said. But she knew he did not want any wholly sufficient, entirely persuasive assurance. If he was disappointed and Jack did not come home, he could tell himself that the fault was his own, taking the bitterness of it all on himself and sparing his miscreant son. He’d have done the same for any of them, had done it for her, she knew. But it was for Jack he had always devised and deployed his greatest strategies of—what to call it—rescue. He used to say, “That boy has really kept me on my knees!” He seemed to have persuaded himself that this was yet another blessing.
    Ames arrived and the two of them put their heads togetherover the checkerboard. There were so many jokes between them. Once when they were boys in seminary they were walking across a bridge, arguing about some point of doctrine. A wind had blown her father’s hat into the water, and he had rolled up his pant legs and walked in the river after it, not