of golden canaries in it. Along each of the three sills marched pots
of brilliantly-blooming scarlet geraniums. A fire spluttered and
sparkled in the fireplace, and drawn up in front of it was a big
easy chair for Granny, and a small easy one for Maida. Familiar
things lay about, too. In one corner gleamed the cheerful face of
the tall old clock which marked the hours with so silvery a voice
and the moon-changes by such pretty pictures. In another corner
shone the polished surface of a spidery-legged little spinet. Maida
loved both these things almost as much as if they had been human
beings, for her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother
had loved them before her. Needed things caught her eyes everywhere.
Here was a little bookcase with all her favorite books. There was a
desk, stocked with business-like-looking blank-books. Even the
familiar table with Granny’s “Book of Saints” stood near the easy
chair. Granny’s spectacles lay on an open page, familiarly marking
the place.

In the center of the room stood a table set for three.

“It’s just the dearest place,” Maida said. “Billy, you’ve remembered
everything. I thought I heard a bird peep once, but I was too busy
to think about it.”

“Want to go upstairs?” Billy asked.

“I’d forgotten all about bedrooms.” Maida flew up the stairs as if
she had never known a crutch.

The two bedrooms were very simple, all white—woodwork, furniture,
beds, even the fur rugs on the floor. But they were wonderfully gay