faint, sweet smell rose. Kirk held Felicia's sleeve, for she was
carrying two bags. He stumbled eagerly through the tall dry grass
of last summer's unmown growth.

"Now can you see it? _Now_?"

But Felicia had stopped, and Kirk stopped, too.

"Are we there? Why don't you say anything?"

Felicia said nothing because she could not trust her voice. Kirk knew
every shade of it; she could not deceive him. Gaunt and gray the "fine
old farm-house" stood its ground before them. Old it assuredly was, and
once fine, perhaps, as its solid square chimneys and mullioned windows
attested. But oh, the gray grimness of it! the sagging shutter that
creaked, the burdocks that choked the stone door-step, the desolate wind
that surged in the orchard trees and would not be still!

Ken did what Felicia could not do. He laughed--a real laugh, and swept
Kirk into warm, familiar arms.

"It's a big, jolly, fine old place!" he said. "Its windows twinkle
merrily, and the front door is only waiting for the key I have in my
pocket. We've got home, Quirk--haven't we, Phil?"

Felicia blessed Ken. She almost fancied that the windows did twinkle
kindly. The big front door swung open without any discourteous
hesitation, and Ken stood in the hall.

"Phew--dark!" he said. "Wait here, you fellows, while I get some