mingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent
to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy.

"I don't doubt it," said Roger, politely.

"Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir and
I had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. I can
smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows was open
in Summer. A bee come in once while the minister was prayin' and lighted
on Deacon Emory's bald head. Seems a'most as if 't was yesterday.

[Sidenote: Great Notions]

"Your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "Just before we
was married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did."

III

The Tower of Cologne

Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while she
sewed. "I am sorry," he said, "that I wasn't at home when your father
came over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'm
not very orderly."

"It doesn't matter," returned Barbara, threading her needle again. "I
steal too much time from my work as it is."

Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "I wish I could come
over every day and read to you, but you know how it is. Days, I'm in the
office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your father
wants you and my mother wants me."

"I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I'm sure your
mother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that
time. I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come
over then?"

[Sidenote: A Happy Thought]

"Happy thought!" exclaimed Roger. "Still, you might not always want me.
How shall I know?"

"I'll put a candle in the front window," suggested Barbara, "and if you
can come, all right. If not, I'll understand."

Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to find
a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Mattie had so far
determinedly set her face against her son's association with the young
of the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and had never
walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban.

Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age,
begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a third
person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear
hospitable when anyone came. Miriam might sometimes have read to
Barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had