And for several long minutes Miss Wingate sat perfectly still and
looked across the meadow to the sky-line with intent eyes. Teether
was busily engaged in drawing by degrees his own pink toes up to his
rosy lips in an effort to get his foot into his mouth, an ambition
that sways most mortals from their seventh to tenth month. A thin
wraith of Miss Alford's personality had been drifting through the
singer lady's consciousness for some days, but she was positively
stunned at this sudden materialization. There come moments in the
lives of most women when they get glimpses into the undiscovered
land of their own hearts and are appalled thereby. Suddenly she
hugged the chuckling baby very close and began a rapid rocking to
the humming accompaniment of a rollicking street tune, a seemingly
inexplicable but perfectly natural proceeding.

"Well, I'd like to know which is the oldest, you or the baby, honey-
bird!" exclaimed Mother Mayberry as she came up the steps in the
midst of the frolic. "You and him a-giggling make music like a nest
full of young cat-birds. Did you ever notice how 'most any down-
heart will get up and go a-marching to a laugh tune? I needed just
them chuckles to set me up again." As she finished speaking Mother
Mayberry seated herself on the top step and Miss Wingate slipped
down beside her with the baby in her arms.

"What is the trouble this morning, Mrs. Mayberry?" she asked, as she
moved a little closer, so Teether could reach out and nozzle against
Mother Mayberry's shoulder. "Anybody sick?"

"No, not to say sick much," answered Mother, with a touch of
wistfulness in her gentle eyes, "but it looks like, day by day, I
can see Mis' Bostick slipping away from us, same as one of the white