The autumn sunlight, reddened somewhat by the slight haze of smoke,
poured in at the high windows of the dining-room, glinted on the silver,
and was split into bewildering colors by the prisms of the chandelier.
Many precious extra leaves were inserted under the white cloth, and Mrs.
Waring's eyes were often dimmed with happiness as she glanced along the
ranks on either side until they rested on the man with whom she had
chosen to pass her life. Her admiration for him had gradually grown into
hero-worship. His anger, sometimes roused, had a terrible moral quality
that never failed to thrill her, and the Loyal Legion button on his black
frock coat seemed to her an epitome of his character. He sat for the
most part silent, his remarkable, penetrating eyes, lighting under his
grizzled brows, smiling at her, at the children, at the grandchildren.
And sometimes he would go to the corner table, where the four littlest
sat, and fetch one back to perch on his knee and pull at his white,
military mustache.

It was the children's day. Uproar greeted the huge white cylinder of
ice-cream borne by Katie, the senior of the elderly maids; uproar greeted
the cake; and finally there was a rush for the chocolates, little tablets
wrapped in tinfoil and tied with red and blue ribbon. After that, the
pandemonium left the dining-room, to spread itself over the spacious
house from the basement to the great playroom in the attic, where the
dolls and blocks and hobby-horses of the parental generation stoically
awaited the new.

Sometimes a visitor was admitted to this sacramental feat, the dearest
old gentleman in the world, with a great, high bridged nose, a slight
stoop, a kindling look, and snow white hair, though the top of his head
was bald. He sat on Mrs. Waring's right, and was treated with the