“I won’t forget,” said Roger.

* * * * *

He watched them start off up the street.  The night was soft, refreshing, and the place was quiet and personal.  The house was one of a dozen others, some of red brick and some of brown stone, that stood in an uneven row on a street but a few rods in length, one side of a little triangular park enclosed by a low iron fence, inside of which were a few gnarled trees and three or four park benches.  On one of these benches his eye was caught by the figure of an old woman there, and he stood a moment watching her, some memory stirring in his mind.

Occasionally somebody passed.  Otherwise it was silent here.  But even in the silence could be felt the throes of change; the very atmosphere seemed charged with drastic things impending.  Already the opposite house line had been broken near the center by a high apartment building, and another still higher rose like a cliff just back of the house in which Roger lived.  Still others, and many factory lofts, reared shadowy bulks on every hand.  From the top of one an enormous sign, a corset pictured forth in lights, flashed out at regular intervals; and from farther off, high up in the misty haze of the night, could be seen the gleaming pinnacle where hour by hour that great bell slowly boomed the time away.  Yes, here the old was passing.  Already the tiny parklet was like the dark bottom of a pit, with the hard sparkling modern town towering on every side, slowly pressing, pressing in and glaring down with yellow eyes.

But Roger noticed none of these things.  He watched the old woman on the bench and groped for the memory she had stirred.  Ah, now at last he had it.  An April night long, long ago, when he had sat where she was now, while here in the house his wife’s first baby, Edith, had begun her life....

Slowly he turned and went inside.

CHAPTER II

Roger’s hearing was extremely acute.  Though the room where he was sitting, his study, was at the back of the house, he heard Deborah’s key at the street door and he heard the door softly open and close.

“Are you there, dearie?” Her voice from the hallway was low; and his answer, “Yes, child,” was in the same tone, as though she were with him in the room.  This keen sense of hearing had long been a peculiar bond between them.  To her father, Deborah’s voice was the most distinctive part of her, for often as he listened the memory came of her voice as a girl, unpleasant, hurried and stammering.  But she had overcome all that.  “No grown woman,” she had declared, when she was eighteen, “has any excuse for a voice like mine.”  That was eleven years ago; and the voice she had acquired since, with its sweet magnetic quality, its clear and easy articulation, was to him an expression of Deborah’s growth.  As she took off her coat and hat in the hall she said, in the same low tone as before,