ancestral town with a mildly disturbing taste in her mouth. "Settling
down" at thirty-six was not at all to her mind; she would not settle
down!

"If I catch you doing it, Theodosia Baxter!" she said. "If I catch you
growing old! The minute you feel it coming on, you pack up and start for
Rome! Or Paris! Or Turkistan! Start for Anywhere! Keep going!"

But, already, did she feel it coming on even before all her trunks were
unpacked? She was a little frightened at certain signs. Now, when she
sat down heavily--why did she sit down heavily? If some one had called
upon her for scores of little services, so that she must hop up again,
immediately--little piping voices: "Mother, where's my cap?" "Mother,
make Johnnie stop plaguing me!" "Mother, come quick!" If a big John had
come home to her, demanding her time or sympathy or service--

"No little Johns--no big one!" She sighed. "Is that the matter with you,
Theodosia Baxter? Well, for Heaven's sake, don't tell anybody! Keep a
bold front."

She dozed a little in her rocker while she waited. Her plaintive
reveries took the shape of a sober little dream wherein one Theodosia
Baxter tottered on a cane and another walked briskly and youngly among
Johns. Both Theodosias were thirty-six.

"Mercy!" she exclaimed, waking up. "Where's my cane? I must go and iron
Stefana's dresses!" She felt oddly refreshed. Queer dream to refresh
one! She found herself thinking kindly of Stefana.

"I hope she's sound asleep, and a pitying little girl angel with a