was sure the puppies were sleeping correctly. He closed the
door so that Fuji would not hear him humming a lullaby. Three Blind Mice
was the only nursery song he could remember, and he sang it over and
over again.

When he tiptoed downstairs, Fuji had gone to bed. Gissing went into his
study, lit a pipe, and walked up and down, thinking. By and bye he wrote
two letters. One was to a bookseller in the city, asking him to send (at
once) one copy of Dr. Holt's book on the Care and Feeding of Children,
and a well-illustrated edition of Mother Goose. The other was to Mr.
Poodle, asking him to fix a date for the christening of Mr. Gissing's
three small nephews, who had come to live with him.

"It is lucky they are all boys," said Gissing. "I would know nothing
about bringing up girls."

"I suppose," he added after a while, "that I shall have to raise Fuji's
wages."

Then he went into the kitchen and fixed the dishcloth rack.

Before going to bed that night he took his usual walk around the house.
The sky was freckled with stars. It was generally his habit to make a
tour of his property toward midnight, to be sure everything was in good
order. He always looked into the ice-box, and admired the cleanliness
of Fuji's arrangements. The milk bottles were properly capped with their
round cardboard tops; the cheese was never put on the same rack with
the butter; the doors of the ice-box were carefully latched. Such
observations, and the slow twinkle of the fire in the range, deep down
under the curfew layer of coals, pleased him. In the cellar he peeped
into the garbage can, for it was always a satisfaction to assure himself
that Fuji did not waste anything that could be used. One of the laundry
tub taps was dripping, with a soft measured tinkle: he said to himself
that he really must have it attended to. All these domestic matters
seemed more significant than ever when he thought of youthful innocence
sleeping upstairs in the spare-room bed. His had been a selfish life
hitherto, he feared. These puppies were just what he needed to take him
out of himself.

Busy with these thoughts, he did not notice the ironical whistling
coming from the pond. He tasted the night air with cheerful
satisfaction. "At any rate, to-morrow will be a fine day," he said.

The next day it rained. But Gissing was too busy to think about the
weather. Every hour or so during the night he had gone into the spare
room to listen attentively to the breath