It was with an effort that she roused herself, to lead the little
quartette upstairs. And even as she did so she remembered this old
sensation, the old reluctance to leave after-dinner quiet and
relaxation for the riot of the nursery. Smiling, she carried the
baby upstairs, and settled the chattering children in all the
novelty of the bare wide rooms.

Bert could hear the diminishing trills of talk and laughter, the
repeated good-nights. The oblong of light from the upper window
faded suddenly from the lawn. Somewhere from the big closet at the
back, lately filled with slip-covers and new tires, Agnes hummed
over the subdued click and tinkle of dishes and silver, and he
could hear Nancy's feet coming carefully down the steep,
unfamiliar stairway. Presently she joined him in the soft early
darkness of the doorway, silently took the wide arm of his porch-
chair, and leaned against his shoulder. Bert put his arm about
her.

It was a heavenly summer evening, luminous even before the moon-
rising. The last drift of smoke was gone, and the garden drenched
with scent. Under the first stars the shrubs and trees stood in
panoramic perspective; the lawns looked wide and smooth. Down the
street, under a dark arch of elms, the lights of other houses
showed yellow and warm; now and then a motor-car swept by, sending
a circle of white light for a few moments against the gloom.

"Dead, dear?" Bert asked, after awhile. Nancy sighed contentedly
before she answered: