er
velvet smock. I carried flowers, too, and a book. I was keen with
anticipation. The years seemed to drop from me. I was a boy of twenty
going to meet the lady of my first romance.

When I arrived at the bungalow I found that Rosalie had with her the old
great-aunt and uncle who had been with her when we first met in Maine.
They had come on for Christmas unexpectedly, anticipating an eager
welcome, happy in their sense of surprise.

Rosalie, when we had a moment alone, expressed her dismay.

"They are going to stay until to-morrow night, Jim Crow. And I haven't
planned any Christmas dinner."

"We'll take them to the country club."

"How heavenly of you to think of it!"

I gave her the flowers and the book. But I kept the jewel for the high
moment when I should ask her for a greater gift in exchange.

But the high moment did not come that night. The old uncle and aunt sat
up with us. They had much to talk about. They were a comfortable
pair--silver-haired and happy in each other--going toward the end of the
journey hand in hand.

The old man went to the door with me when I left, and we stood for a
moment under the stars.

"Mother and I miss hanging up the stockings for the kiddies," he said.

"Were there many kiddies?"

"Three. Two dead and one married and out West. Rosalie seemed the
nearest that we had, and that's why we came. I thought mother might be
lonely in our big old house."

The next day at the country club the old gentleman was genial but
slightly garrulous. The old lady talked about her children and her
Christmas memories. I saw that Rosalie was frankly bored.

As for myself, I was impatient for my high moment.

But I think I gave the old folks a good time and that they missed
nothing in my manner. And, indeed, I think that they missed nothing in
Rosalie's. They had the gentle complacency of the aged who bask in their
own content.

It was toward the end of dinner that I caught a look in Rosalie's eyes
which almost made my heart stop beating. I had not seen it since Perry's
death. I had seen it first when she had stood in the door of his room on
the night that I tucked him up in bed and gave him the hot oysters. It
was that look of distaste--that delicate shrinking from an unpleasant
spectacle.

Following her gaze I saw that the old gentleman had sunk in his chair
and was gently nodding. His wife leaned toward me.

"Milton always takes a cat nap after meals," she said, smiling. And I
s