parlor, will you, Lizzie?"

"Sure," said Lizzie, good-naturedly. Lydia sat opposite her father and
poured tea. The ancient maid of all work sat beside Patience and
dispensed the currant sauce and the cake.

The baby was half asleep before the meal was ended. "She didn't finish
her nap this afternoon," said Lydia. "I'll take her up to bed now and
finish my cake afterward."

She tugged the baby out of the high chair that was becoming too close a
fit and toiled with her up the narrow stairs that led from the entry.

The little sisters slept together in a slant-ceilinged bedroom. Here
again was dust and disorder, the floor covered with clothing and toys,
the bed unmade, the old fashioned mahogany bureau piled high with
books, brushes, and soiled teacups that had held the baby's milk.

There was still light enough to see by. Lydia stood Patience on the
bed and got her into her nightdress after gently persuading the baby to
let her fasten the balloon to the foot of the bed. Then she carried
her to the little rocker by the window and with a look that was the
very essence of motherhood began to rock the two year old to sleep.
Presently there floated down to Amos, smoking his pipe on the front
step, Lydia's childish, throaty contralto:

"I've reached the land of corn and wine
With all its riches surely mine,
I've reached that beauteous shining shore,
My heaven, my home, for ever more."