went
round to the stoop and I took a big rocker. For a moment they stared, as
though considering me in the new light of a perfect "hostile."

"Say," began Beppo, "what you doin' in there?" and he pointed to the
house.

"What do you want to know for?" I retorted, humorously, stroking his
dark head. I am fond of children in a way, especially boys. He twisted
his head away, but without ill-temper, and looked at me gravely.

"Don't you work?" he demanded.

"A little, sometimes," I replied earnestly, feeling for my cigarettes.

"What sort of work?" said Benvenuto, standing in front of me.

"We make pictures," I said, evasively. I have a silly reluctance to talk
of literature as work.

"Huh!" they remarked, and surveyed me afresh.

"What does your father work at?" I asked, cautiously.

"He's at sea," said Beppo.

And that was all they knew. I tried the question in many ways, but they
had no other answer. Evidently they had grown up with that phrase in
their ears, "at sea," and were satisfied.

"Don't you want to see him?" I suggested. They "supposed so." I left
that subject.

"How old are you?"

"Seven," said Beppo. "Ben's six."

"You are very precocious," I remarked, to myself chiefly.

"How?"

"Precocious," I repeated, rising to meet the postman. He handed me
several business letters and one for Bill with an English stamp, a fat
package.

"Who's that from?" asked Beppo, and I was pulling his ear gently as Bill
came out with a rush. The postman went along to the next house.

At this moment my perceptions became blurred. I remember handing the
letters to Bill and Mac. I remember the quick scuffle of the two
children as they hastened toward their own home. All this is blurred.
What stands out sharply in my memory is the figure of Mrs. Carville, her
waist pressed hard against the fence, a long envelope in her hand,
gesticulating to the children as they went towards her. I saw her wave
them peremptorily indoors and then remain by the fence, regarding me
with profound distrust. I made a step forward to speak, for I should
have had to shout at that distance, but she turned and swung up the
steps of her porch and slammed the door.

"A letter from Cecil," said Bill as I took my seat, a little downcast
at the encounter. Cecil is the painter-cousin, at Wigborough, Essex,
England.

"What does he say?" I inquired.

"Read it to us," said she, and handed me a dozen sheets of tracing paper
pinned together.

I