hether she were at home."

"She's with Tom," Amzi added; and as the hack had reached his house he
clambered out and bade the driver carry in the bags.

She paused midway of the walk that led in from the street and surveyed
the near landscape. This had been her father's house, and there within a
stone's throw stood the cottage in which she had begun her married life.
The street lights outlined it dimly, and her gaze passed on to the other
houses upon the Montgomery acres, in which her sisters lived. These had
not been there when she left, and the change they effected interested
her, though, it seemed, not deeply.

The door was opened by a white-jacketed Negro.

"This is my sister, Mrs. Holton, Jerry. You can take her things right up
to the front room."

"Yes, sah. Good-evenin', ma'am; good-evenin'. Mighty fine weather we're
havin'; yes, ma'am, it shore is cole."

He helped her deftly, grinning with the joy of his hospitable race in
"company," and pleased with the richness of the coat he was hanging
carefully on the old rack in the hall.

"Tell Sarah we'll have supper right away. Want to go to your room now,
Lois?"

"Thanks, no; I'm hungry and the thought of food interests me. You don't
dress for dinner, do you, Amzi?"

"Thunder, no! I'll put on my slippers and change my collar. Back in a
minute."

As he climbed the stairs she gave herself an instant's inspection in the
oblong gilt-framed mirror over the drawing-room mantel, touching her
hair lightly with her fingers, and then moved through the rooms humming
softly. When Amzi came down she met him in the hall.

"Well, old fellow, it's wonderful how you don't change! You're no fatter
than you were twenty years ago, but your hair has gone back on you
scandalously. Kiss me!"

She put her arm round his neck and when the kiss had been administered,
patted his cheeks with her small delicate hands. Supper was announced
immediately and she put her arm through his as they walked to the
dining-room.

"It's a dear old house, just as it always was; and it's like your
sentimental old soul to hang on to it. Sentiment counts, after all,
Amzi. Too bad you had to be a banker, when I distinctly remember how you
used to drive us all crazy with your flute; and you did spout Byron--you
know you did! You ought to travel; there's nothing like it--a
sentimental pilgrimage would brighten you up. If I couldn't move around
I'd die. But I always was a restless animal. Dear me! If th