Phil and Ken looked at one another in some amusement.

“The cookery,” said Felicia, “I’ll admit came by degrees.  Do you remember that very first bread?”

“If I recall rightly, I replaced that loose stone in the well-coping with it, didn’t I?” said Ken, “or did I use it for the Dutchman’s bow anchor?”

“Nothing was wrong with those biscuits, tonight,” Mrs. Sturgis said.  “Come and sit here with me, my Kirk.”

Felicia blew out the candles that had graced the supper-table, drew the curtains across the windows where night looked in, and came back to sit on the hearth at her mother’s feet.  The contented silence about the fire was presently broken by a tapping at the outer door, and Ken rose to admit the Maestro and Martin.  The Maestro, after a peep within, expressed himself loth to disturb such a happy time, but Ken haled him in without more ado.

“Nonsense, sir,” he said.  “Why—­why you’re part of us.  Mother wouldn’t have seen half our life here till she’d met you.”

So the Maestro seated himself in the circle of firelight, and Martin retired behind a veil of tobacco-smoke—­with permission—­in the corner.

“We came,” said the Maestro, after a time of other talk, “because we’re going away so soon, and—­”

“Going away!” Three blank voices interrupted him.  Kirk left even his mother’s arm, to find his way to the Maestro’s.

“But I do go away,” said the old gentleman, lifting a hand to still all this protest, “every autumn—­to town.  And I came partly to ask—­to beg you—­that when cold weather seems to grip Applegate Farm too bitterly, you will come, all of you, to pay an old man a long visit.  May I ask it of you, too, Mrs. Sturgis?  My house is so big—­Martin and I will find ourselves lost in one corner of it.  And—­” he frowned tremendously and shook Kirk’s arm, “I absolutely forbid Kirk to stop his music.  How can he study music without his master?  How can he study without coming to stay with his master, as it was in the good old days of apprenticeship?”

Felicia looked about the little shadow-flecked room.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said the Maestro, smoothing Kirk’s dark hair.  “You’re hating the thought of leaving Applegate Farm.  But perhaps the winter wind will sing you a different tune.  Do you not think so, Mrs. Sturgis?”

Mrs. Sturgis nodded.  “Their experience doesn’t yet embrace all the phases of this,” she said.

“Yes,” said the Maestro, “some day before the snows come, you will come to me.  And we’ll fill that big house with music, and songs, and laughing—­yes, and work, too.  Ah, please!” said the Maestro, quite pathetically.

Felicia put her hand out to his.

“We will come, dear Maestro,” she said, “when this little fire will not keep us warm any longer.”

“Thank you,” said the Maestro.

From behind them came murmurous talk of ships—­Ken and Martin discussing the Celestine and her kind, and the magic ports below the Line.  Kirk whispered suddenly to the Maestro, who protested.