to be put on. Finally, I got Rose a carriage, to go to the ferry,--
quite a luxury in those days!" he interrupted himself, with a smile.

"And did the children love it,--the country?" said Anne, wistfully.

"Made them over!" said he, nodding reflectively. "Yes. I remember
that the day after we moved was a Sunday, and we had quite a patch
of lawn over there that I thought needed cutting. I shall never
forget those little girls tumbling about in the cut grass, and Rose
watching from the steps, with the baby in her lap. It made us all
over." His voice fell again, and he stared smilingly into the fire.

"The children were born here, then?" said Anne.

"The little girls, yes. And the oldest boy. Afterward there was
another boy, and a little girl--" he paused. "A little girl whom we
lost," he finished gravely.

"Both these babies were born here," Anne said, after a moment. Her
caller looked from one child to the other with an expression of
interest and understanding that no childless man can ever wear.

"Our Rose was born here, our first girl," he said. "Sometimes a
foggy morning even now will bring that morning back to me. My wife
was very ill, and I remember creeping out of her room, when she had
gone to sleep, and hearing the fog-horns outside,--it was early
morning. We had an old woman taking care of her,--no trained nurses
in those days!--and she was sitting here by this fireplace, with the
tiny girl in her lap. Do you know--" his smile met Anne's--"do you
know, I was so tired, and we had been so frightened for Rose, and it