in the light. The glimpse of the bay that had not yet been lost
between the walls of fast-encroaching new buildings, was no longer
dull, and beaten level by the rain, but showed cold, and ruffled,
and steely-blue; there was even a whitecap or two dancing on the
crests out toward Alcatraz. A rising wind made the ivy twinkle
cheerfully against the old-fashioned brick wall that bounded the
Warriners' backyard.

"I believe the storm is really over!" Anne said, thankfully, half
aloud, "to-morrow will be fair!"

"Out to-morrow?" said Diego, hopefully. He was wedged in between his
mother and the window-sill, and studying earth and sky as absorbedly
as she.

"Out to-morrow, sweetheart," his mother promised. And she wondered
if it was too late to take the babies out to-day.

But it was nearly four o'clock now; even the briefest airing was out
of the question. By the time the baby was dressed, coated, and
hooded, and little Diego buttoned into gaiters and reefer, and Anne
herself had changed her house gown for street wear, and pinned on
her hat and veil, and Helma, summoned from her ironing, had bumped
Virginia's coach down the back porch steps, and around the wet
garden path to the front door,--by the time all this was
accomplished, the short winter daylight would be almost gone, she
knew, and the crowded hour that began with the children's baths, and
that ended their little day with bread-and-milky kisses to Daddy
when he came in, and prayers, and cribs, would have arrived.