sell it, and that we live here because we prefer the
country. Just think, Roger, before I was born, this was father's and
mother's Summer home, and now it's all we have."

"It's a roof and four walls--that's all any house is, without the spirit
that makes it home."

"He thinks it's beautifully furnished. Of course we have the old
mahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearly
everything. I've used some of mother's real laces in the sewing and sold
practically all the rest. Whatever anyone would buy has been disposed
of. Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a
fancy for 'antiques.'"

"You have made him very happy, Barbara."

"I know, but is it right?"

"I'm not orthodox, my dear girl, but, speaking as a lawyer, if it harms
no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong."

"I hope you're right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me."

[Sidenote: A Saint's Conscience]

"Imagine a saint's conscience being troublesome."

"Don't laugh at me--you know I'm not a saint."

"How should I know?"

"Ask Aunt Miriam. She has no illusions about me."

"Thanks, but I don't know her well enough. We haven't been on good terms
since she drove me out of the melon patch--do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember. We wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make golden
bells in the Tower of Cologne?"

"I believe so. We never got the Tower finished, did we?"

"No. I wasn't allowed to play with you for a long time, because you were
such a bad boy."

"Next Summer, I think we should rebuild it. Let's renew our youth
sometime by making the Tower of Cologne in your back yard."

"There are no golden bells."

"I'll get some from somewhere. We owe it to ourselves to do it."

Barbara's blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled. "When
it's done?" she asked.

[Sidenote: Like Fairy Tales]

"We'll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in the
fairy tales."

"I said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than I am,
but, upon my word, I believe it's nearer twenty."

"That makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like the
green bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional
soft-boiled egg. I should have been in bed by six o'clock, and now
it's--gracious, Barbara, it's after eleven. What do you mean by keeping
the young up so late?"

As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket
of his