Anne laughed. "Perhaps she boasted about her husband, too," she
said, "as I do, when Jimmy isn't anywhere around."

She liked the tender look, that had in it just a touch of pleased
embarrassment with which he shook his head.

"Well, well, perhaps she did. Perhaps she did. She was very merry;
pleased with everything; to this day my wife always sees the
cheerful side of things first. A great gift, that. She danced about
this house as if it were another toy, and she a little girl. We
thought it a very, very lovely little home." His eyes travelled
about the low walls. "I got to thinking of it to-day, wondered if it
were still standing. I stood at your gate a little while,--the path
is the same, and the steps, and some of the old trees,--a japonica,
I remember, and the lemon verbenas. Finally, I found myself ringing
your bell."

"I'm so glad you did!" Anne said. "There are lots of old trees and
shrubs in the backyard, too, that you and your wife might remember.
We think it is the dearest little house in the world, except that
now we are rather anxious to get the children out of the city."

"Yes, yes," he agreed with interest, "much better for them somewhere
across the bay. I remember that finally we moved into the country--
Alameda. The boy was a baby, then, and the two little girls very
small. It was quite a move! Quite a move! We got one load started,
and then had to wait and wait here--it was raining, too!--for the
men to come for the other load. My wife's sister had gone ahead with
the girls, but I remember Rose and I and the baby waiting and
waiting,--with the baby's little coat and cap on top of a box, ready