she's not doing the correct thing. They've just had a frieze of
English tapestries put in the drawing-room and hall,--English
TAPESTRIES!"

"Perhaps you don't appreciate tapestries," said Mrs. Burgoyne, with
her twinkling smile. "You know there is a popular theory that such
things keep money in circulation."

"You know there's hardly any form of foolishness or vice of which
you can't say that," he reminded her soberly; and Mrs. Burgoyne,
serious in turn, answered quickly:

"Yes, you're quite right. It's too bad; we American women seem
somehow to have let go of everything real, in the last few
generations. But things are coming around again." She rose from the
steps, still facing the village. "Tell me, who is my nearest
neighbor there, in the white cottage?" she demanded.

"I am," Barry said unexpectedly. "So if you need--yeast is it, that
women always borrow?"

"Yeast," she assented laughing. "I will remember. And now tell me
about trains and things. Listen!" Her voice and look changed
suddenly: softened, brightened. "Is that children?" she asked,
eagerly.

And a moment later four children, tired, happy and laden with
orchard spoils, came around the corner of the house. Barry presented
them as the Carews--George and Jeanette, a bashful fourteen and a
self-possessed twelve, and Dick, who was seven--and his own small