given him. Although he had not the remotest expectation
of seeing her, there was a sense of companionship in the mere thought
that she was in the same town with him.

He watched the lamp-posts carefully as they went along, spelling out
the names of the streets. All of a sudden his heart gave a bound. They
had turned a corner and were driving along Fourth Avenue. He took the
slip of paper from his pocket. Yes, he was right. That was the name of
the street. Then he began to watch for the numbers. 200, 300, 400;
they passed on several more blocks. Mr. Dearborn drove up to the
pavement and handed him the reins to hold, while he took the crock of
butter into the house. Steven glanced up at the number. It was 812.
Then the next one--no, the one after that--must be the place.

It was a large, elegant house, handsomer than any they had passed on
the avenue. As long as it was in sight Steven strained his eyes for a
backward look, but saw no one.

Week after week he watched and waited, but the blinds were always
closed, and he saw no signs of life about the place. Then one day he
saw a carriage stop at the gate. A lady all in black stepped out and
walked slowly towards the house. Her long, heavy veil hid her face,
but he thought he recognized her. He was almost sure it was Mrs.
Estel. He could hardly resist the inclination to run after her and
speak to her; but while he hesitated the great hall door swung back
and shut her from sight. He wondered what great trouble had come to
her that she should be dressed in deep black.

The hope of seeing her was the only thing about his weekly trips to
town that he anticipated with any pleasure. It nearly always happened
that some time during the morning while he was gone Robin got into
trouble. Nobody seemed to think that the reason the child was usually
so good was due largely to Steven's keeping him happily employed. He
always tried to contrive something to keep him busy part of the
morning; but Robin found no pleasure very long in solitary pursuits,
and soon abandoned them.

[Illustration]

Once he took a ball of yarn from the darning-basket to roll after the
white kitten. He did not mean to be mischievous any more than the
white kitten did, but the ball was part of Grandma Dearborn's knitting
work. When she found the needles pulled out and the stitches dropped,
she scolded him sharply. All her children had been grown up so long
she had quite forgotten how to make allowances for th