Bridging the Years

by Kathleen Norris

The rain had stopped; and after long days of downpour, there seemedat last to be a definite change. Anne Warriner, standing at one ofthe dining-room windows, with the tiny Virginia in her arms, couldfind a decided brightening in the western sky. Roofs--the roofs thatmade a steep sky-line above the hills of old San Francisco--glintedin the light. The glimpse of the bay that had not yet been lostbetween the walls of fast-encroaching new buildings, was no longerdull, and beaten level by the rain, but showed cold, and ruffled,and steely-blue; there was even a whitecap or two dancing on thecrests out toward Alcatraz. A rising wind made the ivy twinklecheerfully against the old-fashioned brick wall that bounded theWarriners' backyard."I believe the storm is really over!" Anne said, thankfully, halfaloud, "to-morrow will be fair!""Out to-morrow?" said Diego, hopefully. He was wedged in between hismother and the window-sill, and studying earth and sky as absorbedlyas she."Out to-morrow, sweetheart," his mother promised. And she wonderedif it was too late to take the babies out to-day.But it was nearly four o'clock now; even the briefest airing was outof the question. By the time the baby was dressed, coated, andhooded, and little Diego buttoned into gaiters and reefer, and Anneherself had changed her house gown for street wear, and pinned onher hat and veil, and Helma, summoned from her ironing, had bumpedVirginia's coach down the back porch steps, and around the wetgarden path to the front door,--by the time all this wasaccomplished, the short winter daylight would be almost gone, sheknew, and the crowded hour that began with the children's baths, andthat ended their little day with bread-and-milky kisses to Daddywhen he came in, and prayers, and cribs, would have arrived.Anne sighed. She would have been glad to get out into the coolwinter afternoon, herself, after a long, quiet day in the warmhouse. It was just the day and hour for a brisk walk, with one'shands plunged deep in the pockets of a heavy coat, and one's hattied snugly against the wind. Twenty minutes of such walking, shethought longingly, would have shaken her out of the littleindefinable mood of depression that had been hanging over her allday. She could have climbed the steep street on which the cottagefaced, and caught the freshening ocean breeze full in her face atthe corner; she could have looked down on the busy littlethoroughfares of the Chinese quarter just below, and the swarmingstreets of the Italian colony beyond, and beyond that again to thebay, dotted now with the brown sails of returning fishing smacks,and crossed and recrossed by the white wakes of ferry-boats. For theWarriners' cottage clung to the hill just above the busy,picturesque foreign colonies, and the cheerful unceasing traffic ofthe piers. It was in a hopelessly unfashionable part of the citynow; its old, dignified neighbors--French and Spanish houses ofplaster and brick, with deep gardens where willow and pepper trees,and fuchsias, and great clumps of calla lilies had once flourished--were all gone, replaced by modern apartment houses. But it had beenone of the city's show places fifty years before, when its separateparts had been brought whole "around the Horn" from some much oldercity, and when homesick pioneer wives and mothers had climbed theboard-walk that led to its gate, just to see, and perhaps to cryover, the painted china door-knobs, the colored glass fan-light inthe hall, the iron-railed balconies, and slender, carved balustradethat took their hungry hearts back to the decorous, dear old worldthey had left so far behind them.Jimmy and Anne Warriner had stumbled upon the Jackson Street cottagefive years ago, just before their marriage, and after an ecstatic,swift inspection of it, had raced like children to the agent, tocrowd into his willing hand a deposit on the first month's rent.Anne had never kept house before, she had no eyes for obsoleteplumbing, uneven floors, for the dark cellar sacred to cats andrubbish. She and Jim chattered rapturously of French windows, ofbrick garden walks, of how plain little net curtains and Anne's bigbrass bowl full of nasturtiums would look on the landing of theabsurd little stairway that led from the square hall to two uselesslittle chambers above."Jimski--this floor oiled, and the rug laid cross-wise! And oldtapestry papers from Fredericks! And the spindle-chair and Fanny'sclock in the hall!""And the davenport in the dining-room, Anne,--there's no room inhere, and your tea-table at the fireplace, with your copper blazeron it!""Oh, Jim, we'll have a place people will talk about!" Anne wouldsigh happily, after one of these outbursts. And when they made theirlast inspection before really coming to take possession of thecottage, she came very close to him,--Anne was several inchesshorter than her big husband-to-be, and when she got as close asthis to Jim she had to tip her serious little face up quite far,which Jim found attractive,--and said, in a little, breathlessvoice:"It's going to be like a home from the very start, isn't it, Jim?And aren't you glad, Jim, that we aren't doing exactly what everyone else does, that you and I, who are a little different, Jim, aregoing to keep a little different? I mean that you really did dounusual work at college, and you really are of a fine family, and Iam a Pendeering, and have travelled a lot, and been through Vassar,--don't you know, Jim? You don't think it's conceited for us to thinkwe aren't quite the usual type, just between ourselves? Do you?"Jim implied wordlessly that he did not. And whatever Jim thoughthimself, he was quite sincere in saying that he believed Anne to bepeerless among her kind.So they came to Jackson Street, and Anne made it quite as quaint andcharming as her dreams. For a year they could not find a flaw in it.Then little enchanting James Junior came, nick-named Diego forconvenience, who fitted so perfectly into the picture, with hischecked gingham, and his mop of yellow hair. Anne gallantly went onwith her little informal luncheons and dinners, but she had toapologize for an untrained maid now, and interrupt these festivitieswith flying visits to the crib in the big bedroom that opened out ofthe dining-room. And then, very soon after Diego, Virginia was born--surely the most radiant, laughing baby that ever brought her joyouslittle presence into any home anywhere. But with Virginia's coming,life grew very practical for Anne, very different from what it hadbeen in her vague hopes and plans of years ago.The cottage was no longer quite comfortable, to begin with. Thegarden, shadowed heavily by buildings on both sides, was undeniablydamp, and the fascinating railing of the little balconies wasundeniably mouldy. The bath-room, despite its delightful size, andthe ivy that rapped outside its window, was not a modern bath-room.The backyard, once sacred to geraniums and grass, and odd pots ofshrubs, was sunny for the children's playing, to be sure, but nolonger picturesque after their sturdy little boots had trampled itdown, and with lines of their little clothes intersecting it. Annebegan to think seriously of the big apartments all about, hithertoregarded as enemies, but perhaps the solution, after all. The modernflats were delightfully airy, high up in the sun, their floors werehard-wood, their bath-rooms tiled, their kitchens all temptingenamel, and nickel plate, and shining new wood. One had gas to cookwith, furnace heat, hall service, and the joy of the lift."What if we do have to endure a dining-room with red paper and blackwoodwork, Jim," she would say, "and have near-Tiffany shades and ahall two feet square? It would be so comfortable!"But if Jim agreed,--"we'll have a look at some of them on Sunday,"Anne would hesitate."They're so horribly commonplace; they're just what every one elsehas!" she would mourn.Commonplace,--Anne said the word over to herself sometimes, in thelong hours that she spent alone with the children. That was what herlife had become. The inescapable daily routine left her no time forunnecessary prettiness. She met each day bravely, only to findherself beaten and exhausted every night. It was puzzling, it wassometimes a little depressing. Anne reflected that she had alwaysbeen busy, she was indeed a little dynamo of energy, her collegeyears and the years of travel had been crowded with interests andenterprises. But she had never been tired before; she had neverfelt, as she felt now, that she could fall asleep at the dinnertable for sheer weariness, and that no trial was more difficult tobear than Jim's cheerful announcement that the Deanes might be inlater for a call, or the Weavers wanted them to come over for a gameof bridge.And what did she accomplish, after all? she thought sometimes. Whatmark did her busy days leave upon her life? She dressed andundressed the children, she bathed, rocked, amused them; indeed, shewas so adoring a mother that sometimes whole precious fractions ofhours slipped by while she was watching them, laughing at them,catching the little unresponsive soft cheeks to hers for the kissesthat interfered so seriously with their important little goings andcomings. She sewed on buttons and made puddings for Jim, she wentfor aimless walks, pushing Jinny before her in the go-cart, andguiding the chattering Diego with her free hand. She paused long inthe market, uncomfortably undecided between the expensive steak Jimliked so much, and the sausages that meant financial balm to her ownharassed soul. She commenced letters to her mother that driftedabout half-written until Jinny captured and destroyed them. Shesewed up rents in cloth lions and elephants, and turned page afterpage of the children's cloth books. Same and eventless, the monthswent by,--it was March, and the last of the rains,--it was July, andshe and Jim were taking the children off for long Sundays inSausalito, or on the Piedmont hills,--it was October, with the usualletter from Mother about Thanksgiving,--it was Christmas-time again!The seasons raced through their familiar surprises, and were gone.Anne had a desperate sense of wanting to halt them; just to think,just to realize what life meant, and what she could do to make itnearer her dreams.So the first five years of their marriage slipped by, but toward theend with a perceptible brightening of the prospect in everydirection. Not in one day, nor in one week, did the change come; itwas just that things went well for Jim at the office, that thechildren were daily growing less helpless and more enchanting, thatAnne was beginning to take an interest in the theatre again, and wascharming in a new suit and a really extravagant hat. The Warrinersbegan to spend their Sunday afternoons with real estate agents inBerkeley--not this year, perhaps, but certainly next, they told eachother, they could consider that lovely one, with the two baths, andsuch a view, or the smaller one, nearer the station, don't youremember, Jim? where there was a sleeping-porch, and the garden alllaid out? They would bring the children up in the open air andsunshine, and find neighbors, and strike roots, in the lovelycollege town.Then suddenly, there were hard times again. Anne's health becamepoor, she was fitful and depressed, quite unlike her usual sunshinyself. Sometimes Jim found her in tears,--"It's nothing, dearest!Only I'm so miserable all the time!" Sometimes she--Anne, thehopeful!--was filled with forebodings for herself and the child thatwas to come. No unnecessary expense could be incurred now, with thisfresh, inevitable expense approaching. Especial concessions must bemade to Helma, should Helma really stay; the whole little householdwas like a ship that shortens sail, and makes all snug against astorm. As a further complication, business matters began to go badlyfor Jim. Salaries were cut, new rules made, and an unpopular managerinstalled at the office. Anne struggled bravely to hide her mentaland physical discomfort from Jim. Jim, cut to the heart to have toadd anything to her care just now, touched her with a thousandlittle tendernesses; a joke over the burned pudding, a little nameshe had not heard since honeymoon days, a hundred barefootexpeditions about the bedroom in the dark, when Jinny awoke cryingin the night, or Diego could not sleep because he was so "firsty."Tender and intimate days these, but the strain of them told on bothhusband and wife.Things were at this point on the particular dark afternoon thatfound Anne with the two children at the window. All three were stillstaring out into the early dusk when Helma came in from the kitchenwith an armful of damp little garments:"Ef aye sprad dese hare, dey be dray en no tayme?" suggested Helma."Oh, yes! Spread them here by all means; then you can get a goodstart with your ironing to-morrow!" Anne agreed, rousing herselffrom her revery. "Put them all around the fire. And I muststraighten this room!" she said, half to herself; "it's getting onto five!"Followed by the stumbling children, she went briskly about the room,reducing it to order with a practised hand. Toys were piled in alarge basket, scraps tossed into the fire, sewing materials gatheredtogether and put out of sight, the rugs laid smoothly, the window-shades drawn. Anne "brushed up" the floor, pushed chairs against thewall, put a shovelful of coals on the fire, and finally took herrocker at the hearth, and sat with Virginia in her arms, and Diegobeside her, while two silver bowls of bread and milk were finishedto the last drop."There!" said she, pleasantly warmed by these exertions, "now fornighties! And Daddy can come as soon as he likes."But Virginia was fretful and sleepy now, and did not want to be putdown. So Diego manfully departed kitchenward with the empty bowls,and Anne, baby, rocker, and all, hitched her way across the room tothe old chest of drawers by the hall door, and managed to secure thesmall sleeping garments with the little daughter still in her arms.She had hitched her way back to the fireplace again, and was verybusy with buttons and strings, when Helma, appearing in the doorway,announced a visitor."Who?" said Anne, puzzled. "Did the bell ring? I didn't hear it.What is it?""Jantl'man," said Helma."A gentleman?" Anne, very much at a loss, got up, and carryingJinny, and followed by the barefoot Diego, went to the door. She hada reassuring and instant impression that it was a very fine--even amagnificent--old man, who was standing in the twilight of the littlehall. Anne had never seen him before, but there was no question inher heart as to his reception, even at this first glance."How do you do?" she said, a little fluttered, but cordial, too."Will you come in here by the fire? The sitting-room is so cold.""Thank you," said her caller, easily, with a little inclination ofhis head that seemed to acknowledge her hospitality. He put his hat,a shining, silk hat, upon the hall table, and followed her into thedining-room. Anne found, when she turned to give him the big chair,that he had pulled off his big gloves, too, and that Diego had put aconfident, small hand into his.He sat down comfortably, a big, square-built man, with rosy color,hair that was already silvered, and a fast-silvering mustache, andkeen, kind eyes as blue as Virginia's. In the expression of theseeyes, and in the lines about his fine mouth, was that suggestion ofsimple friendliness and sympathy that no man, woman, or child canlong resist. Anne found herself already deciding that she liked thisman. She went on with Jinny's small toilet, even while she wonderedabout her caller, and while she decided that Jim should have anovercoat of exactly this big, generous cut, and of exactly thisdelightful, warm-looking rough cloth, some day."Perhaps this is a bad hour to disturb these little people?" saidthe caller, smiling, but with something in his manner and in hisrather deliberate and well-chosen speech, of the dignity andcourtesy of an older generation."Oh, no, indeed!" Anne assured him. "I'm going right on with them,you see!"Jinny, deliciously drowsy, gave the stranger a slow yet approvingsmile, from the safety of Anne's arms. Diego went to lay a smallhand upon the gentleman's knee."This is my shoe," said Diego, frankly exhibiting a worn specimen,"and Baby has shoes, too, blue ones. And Baby cried in the nightwhen the mirror fell down, didn't she, mother? And she broke herbowl, and bited on the pieces, and blood came down on her bib--""All our tragedies!" laughed Anne."Didn't that hurt her mouth?" said the caller, interestedly, liftingDiego into the curve of his arm.Diego rested his golden mop comfortably against the big shoulder."It hurt her teef," he said dreamily, and subsided.As if it were quite natural that the child should be there, thegentleman eyed Anne over the little head."I've not told you my name, madam," said he. "I am Charles Rideout.Not that that conveys anything to you, I suppose--?""But it does, as it happens!" Anne said, surprised and pleased."Jim--my husband, is with the Rogers-Wiley Company, and I think theydo a good deal of cement work for Rideout & Company.""Surely," assented the man, "and your husband's name is--?""Warriner,--James Warriner," Anne supplied."Ah--? I don't place him," Mr. Rideout said thoughtfully. "Thereare so many. Well, Mrs. Warriner," he turned his smiling, brighteyes to her again, from the fire, "I am intruding on you thisafternoon for a reason that I hope you will find easy to forgivein an old man. I must tell you first that my wife and I usedto live in this house, a good many years ago. We moved away fromit--let me see--we left this house something like twenty-six or--eight years ago. But we've talked a hundred times of comingback here some day, and having a little look about 'littleTen-Twelve,' as we always used to call it. I see your number'schanged. But"--his gesture was almost apologetic--"we are busypeople. Mrs. Rideout likes to live in the country a great partof the time; this neighborhood is inaccessible now--time goesby, and, in short, we haven't ever come back. But this was hometo us for a good many years." He was speaking in a lower voicenow, his eyes on the fire. "Yes, ma'am. Yes, ma'am," he saidgently, "I brought Rose here a bride--thirty-three years ago.""Well, but fancy!" said Anne, her face radiant, "just as wedid! No wonder we said the house looked as if people had beenhappy in it!""There was a Frenchwoman here then," said Mr. Rideout, thoughtfully,"a queer woman! She played fast and loose until I didn't knowwhether we'd ever really get the place or not. This neighborhood wasfull of just such houses then, although I remember Rose used to makegreat capital out of the fact that ours was the only brick one amongthem. This house came around the Horn from Philadelphia, as a matterof fact, and"--his eyes, twinkling with indulgent amusement, metAnne's,--"and you know that before a lady has got a baby to boastof, she's going to do a little boasting about her new house!"Anne laughed. "Perhaps she boasted about her husband, too," shesaid, "as I do, when Jimmy isn't anywhere around."She liked the tender look, that had in it just a touch of pleasedembarrassment with which he shook his head."Well, well, perhaps she did. Perhaps she did. She was very merry;pleased with everything; to this day my wife always sees thecheerful side of things first. A great gift, that. She danced aboutthis house as if it were another toy, and she a little girl. Wethought it a very, very lovely little home." His eyes travelledabout the low walls. "I got to thinking of it to-day, wondered if itwere still standing. I stood at your gate a little while,--the pathis the same, and the steps, and some of the old trees,--a japonica,I remember, and the lemon verbenas. Finally, I found myself ringingyour bell.""I'm so glad you did!" Anne said. "There are lots of old trees andshrubs in the backyard, too, that you and your wife might remember.We think it is the dearest little house in the world, except thatnow we are rather anxious to get the children out of the city.""Yes, yes," he agreed with interest, "much better for them somewhereacross the bay. I remember that finally we moved into the country--Alameda. The boy was a baby, then, and the two little girls verysmall. It was quite a move! Quite a move! We got one load started,and then had to wait and wait here--it was raining, too!--for themen to come for the other load. My wife's sister had gone ahead withthe girls, but I remember Rose and I and the baby waiting andwaiting,--with the baby's little coat and cap on top of a box, readyto be put on. Finally, I got Rose a carriage, to go to the ferry,--quite a luxury in those days!" he interrupted himself, with a smile."And did the children love it,--the country?" said Anne, wistfully."Made them over!" said he, nodding reflectively. "Yes. I rememberthat the day after we moved was a Sunday, and we had quite a patchof lawn over there that I thought needed cutting. I shall neverforget those little girls tumbling about in the cut grass, and Rosewatching from the steps, with the baby in her lap. It made us allover." His voice fell again, and he stared smilingly into the fire."The children were born here, then?" said Anne."The little girls, yes. And the oldest boy. Afterward there wasanother boy, and a little girl--" he paused. "A little girl whom welost," he finished gravely."Both these babies were born here," Anne said, after a moment. Hercaller looked from one child to the other with an expression ofinterest and understanding that no childless man can ever wear."Our Rose was born here, our first girl," he said. "Sometimes afoggy morning even now will bring that morning back to me. My wifewas very ill, and I remember creeping out of her room, when she hadgone to sleep, and hearing the fog-horns outside,--it was earlymorning. We had an old woman taking care of her,--no trained nursesin those days!--and she was sitting here by this fireplace, with thetiny girl in her lap. Do you know--" his smile met Anne's--"do youknow, I was so tired, and we had been so frightened for Rose, and itseemed to me that I had been up and moving about through unfamiliarthings for so many, many hours, that I had almost forgotten thebaby! I remember that it came to me with a shock that Rose was safe,and asleep, and that morning had come, and breakfast was ready, andhere was the baby, the same baby we had been so placidly expectingand planning for, and that, in short, it was all right, and allover!""Oh, I know!" Anne laid an impulsive hand for a second on his, andthe eyes of the young wife, and of the man who had been a youngfather thirty years before, met in wonderful understanding. "That's--that's the way it is," said Anne, a little lamely, with a swiftthought for another foggy morning, when the familiar horn, thewaking noises of the city, had fallen strangely on her own senses,after the terror and triumph of the night. Neither spoke for amoment. Diego's voice broke cheerily into the pause."I can undress myself," he announced, with modest complacence."Can you?" said Charles Rideout. "How about buttons?""I can't do buttons," Diego qualified firmly."Well, I think--I can--remember--how to unbutton--a boy!" said theman, with his pleasant deliberation, as he began on the button thatwas always catching itself on Diego's hair. Diego cheerfullyextended little arms and legs in turn for the disrobing process.Presently a small heap of garments lay on the floor, and thechildren were quite delicious in baggy blue flannels. All the fourwere laughing and absorbed, when James Senior came in a few minuteslater, and found them."Jim," said his wife, eagerly, rising to greet him, and to bringhim, cold and ruddy, to the fireplace, "this is Mr. Rideout, dear!""How do you do, sir?" said Jim, stretching out his hand, and with asmile on his tired, keen, young face. "Don't get up. I see that myboy is making himself at home.""Yes, sir; we've been having a great time getting undressed," saidthe visitor."Jim," Anne went on radiantly, "Mr. Rideout and his wife lived hereyears ago, when they were just married, and their children were bornhere too!""No--is that so!" Jim was as much pleased and surprised as Anne, ashe settled himself with Virginia's web of silky hair against hisshoulder. "Built it, perhaps, Mr. Rideout?""No. No, it was eight or ten years old, then. I used to pass it,walking to the office. We had a little office down on Meig's pierthen. As a matter of fact, my wife never saw it until I brought herhome to it. She was the only child of a widow, very formal Southernpeople, and we weren't engaged very long. So my brother and Ifurnished the house; used--" his eyes twinkled--"used to buy ourpictures in a lump. We decided we needed about four to each room,and we'd go to a dealer's, and pick out a dozen of 'em, and ask himto make us a price!""Just like men!" said the woman."I suppose so. I know that some of those pictures disappeared afterRose had been here a while! And we had linen curtains--""Not linen!" protested Anne."Very--pretty--little--ruffled--curtains they were," he affirmedseriously. "Linen, with blue bands, in this bedroom, and red bandsupstairs. And things--things--" he made a vague gesture--"things onthe dressing-tables and bed to match 'em! I remember that on ourwedding day, when I brought Rose home, we had a little maid here,and dinner was all ready, but no, Rose must run up and down stairslooking at everything in her little wedding dress--" Suddenly cameanother pause. The room was dark now, but for the firelight. LittleJinny was asleep in her father's arms, Diego blinking manfully.Neither husband nor wife, whose hands had found each other, cared tobreak the silence. But after a while Anne said:"What was her wedding dress?"Instantly roused, the guest raised bright, pleased eyes."The ladies' question, Warriner," said he. "It was silk, my dear,her first silk gown. Yellowish, or brownish, it was. And she had oneof those little ruffled capes the ladies used to wear. And a littlebonnet--""A bonnet!""A bonnet she had trimmed herself. I remember watching her, when wewere engaged, making that trimming. You don't see it any more, butthat year all the girls were making it. They made little bunches ofgrapes out of dried peas covered with chamois skin--""Oh, not really!" ejaculated Anne."Indeed, they did. Then they covered their bonnets with them, andwith leaves cut out of the chamois skin. They were charming, too. Mywife wore that bonnet a long time. She trimmed it over and over." Hesighed, but there was a shade of longing as well as pity in hiseyes. "We were young," he said thoughtfully; "I was but twenty-five;we had our hard times. The babies came pretty fast. Rose wasn't verystrong. I worked too hard, got broken down a little, and expenseswent right on, you know--""You bet I know!" Jim said, with his pleasant laugh, and a glancefor Anne."Well," said Charles Rideout, looking keenly from one to the other,"thank God for it, you young people! It never comes back! The dayswhen you shoulder your troubles cheerfully together,--they come totheir end! And they are"--he shook his head--"they are verywonderful to look back to! I remember a certain day," he went onreminiscently, "when we had paid the last of the doctor's bills, andRose met me down town for a little celebration. We had had five orsix years of pretty hard sailing then. We bought her new gloves thatday, I remember, and--shoes, I think it was, and I got a hat, and abook I'd been wanting. We went to a little French restaurant todinner, with all our bundles. And that, that, my dear,--"he said,smiling at Anne,--"seemed to be the turning point. We got into thecountry next year, picked out a little house. And then, the rest ofit all followed; we had two maids, a surrey, I was put into thesuperintendent's place--" a sweep of the fine hand dismissed thedetails. "No man and wife, who do what we did," said he, gravely,"who live modestly, and work hard, and love each other and theirchildren, can fail. That's one of the blessed things of life."Jim cleared his throat, but did not speak. Anne was frankly unableto speak."And now I mustn't keep these children out of bed any longer," saidthe older man. "This has been a--a lovely afternoon for me. I wishMrs. Rideout had been with me." He stood up. "Shall I give you thislittle fellow, Mrs. Warriner?""We'll put the babies down," said Jim, rising, too, "and then,perhaps, you'd like to look about the house, Mr. Rideout?""But I know how a lady feels about having her house inspected--"hesitated the caller, with his bright, fatherly look for Anne."Oh, please do!" she urged them.So the gas was lighted, and they all went into the bedroom, whereAnne tucked the children into their cribs. She stayed there whilethe others went on their tour of inspection, patting her son'ssmall, warm body in the darkness, and listening with a smile to thevisitor's cheerful comments in kitchen and hallway, and Jim'sanswering laugh.When she came blinking out into the lighted dining-room, the menwere upstairs, and Helma, to Anne's astonishment, was showing inanother caller,--and another Charles Rideout, as Anne's puzzledglance at the card in her hand, assured her. This was a tall youngman, a little dishevelled, in a big storm coat, and with dark ringsabout his eyes."I beg your pardon, madam," said he, abruptly, "but was my father,Mr. Charles Rideout, here this afternoon?""Why, he's upstairs with my husband now!" Anne said, strangelydisquieted by the young man's manner."Thank God!" said the newcomer, briefly. And he wiped his foreheadwith his handkerchief, and drew a deep short breath."He--I must apologize to you for breaking in upon you this way,"said young Rideout, "but he came out in the car this afternoon, andwe didn't know where he had gone. He made the chauffeur wait at thecorner at the bottom of the hill, and the fool man waited an hourbefore it occurred to him to telephone me at the house. I came atonce.""He's been here all that time," Anne said. "He's all right. Yourmother and father used to live here, you know, years ago. In thissame house.""Yes, I know we did. I think I was born here," said Charles Rideout,Junior. "I had a sort of feeling that he had come here, as soon asBates telephoned. Dear old dad! He and mother have told us aboutthis place a hundred times! They were talking about it for a coupleof hours a few nights ago." He looked about the room as his fatherhad done. "They were very happy here. There--" he smiled a littlebashfully at Anne--"there never was a pair of lovers like mother anddad!" he said. Then he cleared his throat. "Did my father tell you--?"he began, and stopped."No," Anne said, troubled. He had told them a great deal, but not--she felt sure--not this, whatever it was."That's why we worried about him," said his son, his honest,distressed eyes meeting hers. "You see--you see--we're in trouble atthe house--my mother--my mother left us, last night--""Dead?" whispered Anne."She's been ill a good while," said the young man, "but we thought--She's been so ill before! A day or two ago the rest of us knew it,and we wired for my married sister, but we couldn't get dad torealize it. He never left her, and he's not been eating, and he'dtell all the doctors what serious sicknesses she'd gotten overbefore--" And with a suddenly shaking lip and filling eyes, heturned his back on Anne, and went to the window."Ah!" said Anne, pitifully. And for a full moment there was silence.Then Charles Rideout, the younger, came back to her, pushing hishandkerchief into his coat pocket; and with a restored self-control."Too bad to bother you with our troubles," he said, with a littlesmile like his father's. "To us, of course, it seems like the end ofthe world, but I am sorry to distress you! Dad just doesn't seem tograsp it, he hasn't been excited, you know, but he doesn't seem tounderstand. I don't know that any of us do!" he finished simply."Here they are!" Anne said warningly, as the two other men came downthe stairs."Hello, Dad!" said young Rideout, easily and cheerfully, "I came tobring you home!""This is my boy, Mrs. Warriner," said his father; "you see he'sturned the tables, and is looking after me! I'm glad you came,Charley. I've been telling your good husband, Mrs. Warriner," hesaid, in a lower tone, "that we--that I--""Yes, I know!" Anne said, with her ready tenderness, and a littlegasp like a child's."So you will realize what impulse brought me here to-day," the olderman went on; "I was talking to my wife of this house only a day ortwo ago." His voice had become almost inaudible, and the three youngpeople knew he had forgotten them. "Only a day or two ago," herepeated musingly. And then, to his son, he added wistfully, "Idon't seem to get it through my head, my boy. For a while to-day, Iforgot--I forgot. The heart--" he said, with his little old-worldtouch of dignity--"the heart does not learn things as quickly as themind, Mrs. Warriner."Anne had found something wistful and appealing in his smile before,now it seemed to her heartbreaking. She nodded, without speaking."Dear old Dad," said Charles Rideout, affectionately. "You are tiredout. You've been doing too much, sir, you want sleep and rest.""Surely--surely," said his father, a little heavily. Father and sonshook hands with Jim and Anne, and the older man said gravely, "Godbless you both!" as he and his son went down the wet path, in theshaft of light from the hall door. At the gate the boy put his armtenderly about his father's shoulders."Oh, Anne, Anne," said her husband as she clung to him when the doorwas shut, "I couldn't live one day without you, my dearest! Butdon't--don't cry. Don't let it make you blue,--he had his happiness,you know,--he has his children left!"Anne tightened her arms about his neck."I am crying a little for sorrow, Jim, dearest!" she sobbed, buryingher face in his shoulder. "But I believe it is mostly--mostly forjoy and gratitude, Jim!"

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