* * * * *

It was at dinner that I first noticed a change in Jimmie. It was a
change which was hard to define. Yet I missed something in him--the
enthusiasm, the buoyancy, the almost breathless radiance with which he
had rekindled our dying fires. Yet he looked young enough and happy
enough as he sat at the table in his velvet studio coat, with his crisp,
burnt-gold hair catching the light of the candles. He and his wife were
a handsome pair. His manner to her was perfect. There could be no
question of his adoration.

After dinner we had the tree. It was a young pine set up at one end of
the long dining-room, and lighted in the old fashion by red wax candles.
There were presents on it for all of us. Jimmie gave me an adorably
illustrated _Mother Goose_.

"You are the only other child here, Miss Standish," he said, as he
handed it to me. "I saw this in a book-shop, and couldn't resist it."

We looked over the pictures together. They were enchanting. All the
bells of old London rang out for a wistful Whittington in a ragged
jacket; Bo-Peep in panniers and pink ribbons wailed for her historic
sheep; Mother Hubbard, quaint in a mammoth cap, pursued her fruitless
search for bones. There was, too, an entrancing Boy Blue who wound his
horn, a sturdy darling with his legs planted far apart and distended
rosy cheeks.

"That picture is worth the price of the whole book," said Jimmie, and
hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. "There should be
children in this old house."