d over with a dust-sheet stood in one corner;
there was a doll's house and a big toy box together in another. The
whole room was painfully silent and tidy, as if it had long since
forgotten what it meant to have children playing there--as if even the
echoes of pattering feet and shrill voices had deserted it.

Kettering glanced down at Christine. Her little face was very sad; she
was looking at the big rocking-horse, and there were tears in her eyes.

She and Jimmy had so often ridden its impossible back together; this
deserted room was full of Jimmy and her mother--to her sad heart it was
peopled with ghost faces, and whispering voices that would never come
any more.

Kettering turned away.

"Shall we see the rest of the house?" he asked. He hated that look of
sadness in her face; he was surprised because he felt such a longing to
comfort her.

But they had no time to see the rest of the house, for at that moment
someone called, "Christine--Christine," from the hall below, and
Christine clasped her hands delightedly.

"That is Gladys. Oh, I am so glad--so glad."

She forgot all about Kettering; she ran away from him, and down the
stairs in childish delight. He followed slowly. He reached the hall
just in time to see her fling herself into the arms of a tall girl
standing there; just in time to hear smothered ejaculations.

"You poor darling!" and "Oh, Gladys!" and the sound of many kisses.

He stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Over Christine's
head, his eyes met those of the elder girl. She smiled.

"Christine . . . you didn't tell me you had visitors."

Christine looked up, all smiles now and apologies, as she said:

"Oh, I am so sorry--I forgot." She introduced them. "Mr.
Kettering--Miss Leighton. . . . Mr. Kettering has been looking over
the house; I hope he will buy it," she added childishly.

"It's a shame it has got to be sold," said Gladys bluntly. There was
something very taking about her, in spite of red hair and an
indifferent complexion; she had honest blue eyes and a pleasant voice.
She looked at Kettering a great deal as she spoke; perhaps she noticed
how often his eyes rested on Christine. When presently they went out
into the garden, she walked between them; she kept an arm about
Christine's little figure.

"I missed the train," she explained. "I got your husband's wire,
Christine. Oh, yes, I got it all right, and I rushed to pack the very
minute; but the cab