r," I warned her. In this spirit we
harvested, intent as chipmunks.

After the nurse left us the two children slept together on an upstairs
screened-in porch, and every night, just before they went to sleep, it
was my habit to visit them. Lying down between them with a small head on
each arm, I told them stories or answered the questions which were
suggested by the trees and the sky. "What are stars? What makes the moon
spotted? What does iron come from? How do people make wall paper?" and
many others equally elemental. It was a tender hour for me and a
delicious one for them.

Gradually as they grew older, they fell into the habit of saying, "Now
tell us about when you were a little boy," and so I was led to freshen
up on _A Son of the Middle Border_, which I had begun to rewrite. They
could never get enough of these reminiscences and when, at nine o'clock,
I said, "Daughties, you must go to sleep," they pleaded for "Just one
more," and from this interest I derived a foolish hope that the book, if
it should ever get published, would be successful.

It was sweet to hear those soft voices demanding an explanation of the
universe whose wonders they were rediscovering in their turn. Every
changing season, every expanding leaf was magical to them. A bat
skittering about the chimney, the rustle of a breeze in the maples, were
of sinister significance requiring explanation, and when at last I went
away and they began to softly sing their wistful little evening prayer,
one which Mary Isabel had composed, life seemed worthwhile even to me. I
forgot the irrevocable past and confronted old age with composure.

Meanwhile my father's mind was becoming more and more reminiscent. His
stories once so vivid and so full of detail had narrowed down to a few
familiar phrases. "Just then Sherman and his staff came riding along,"
or "When I was camped on the upper waters of the Wisconsin." His memory
was failing and so was his sense of hearing. He seldom quoted from a
book, but he still cited Blaine's speeches or referred to Lincoln's
anecdotes, and certain of Grant's phrases were often on his lips. In all
his interests he remained objective, concerned with the world of action
not with the library, and while he made no effort to talk down to Mary
Isabel, he contrived to win her adoration, perhaps because she detected
in his voice his adoring love for her. In the mist of his glance was
the tender worship of youth on the part of age.

Al