“It’s a roof and four walls—­that’s all any house is, without the spirit that makes it home.”

“He thinks it’s beautifully furnished.  Of course we have the old mahogany and some of the pictures, but we’ve had to sell nearly everything.  I’ve used some of mother’s real laces in the sewing and sold practically all the rest.  Whatever anyone would buy has been disposed of.  Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a fancy for ‘antiques.’”

“You have made him very happy, Barbara.”

“I know, but is it right?”

“I’m not orthodox, my dear girl, but, speaking as a lawyer, if it harms no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can’t be wrong.”

“I hope you’re right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me.”

[Sidenote:  A Saint’s Conscience]

“Imagine a saint’s conscience being troublesome.”

“Don’t laugh at me—­you know I’m not a saint.”

“How should I know?”

“Ask Aunt Miriam.  She has no illusions about me.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know her well enough.  We haven’t been on good terms since she drove me out of the melon patch—­do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember.  We wanted the blossoms, didn’t we, to make golden bells in the Tower of Cologne?”

“I believe so.  We never got the Tower finished, did we?”

“No.  I wasn’t allowed to play with you for a long time, because you were such a bad boy.”

“Next Summer, I think we should rebuild it.  Let’s renew our youth sometime by making the Tower of Cologne in your back yard.”

“There are no golden bells.”

“I’ll get some from somewhere.  We owe it to ourselves to do it.”

Barbara’s blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled.  “When it’s done?” she asked.

[Sidenote:  Like Fairy Tales]

“We’ll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in the fairy tales.”

“I said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than I am, but, upon my word, I believe it’s nearer twenty.”

“That makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like the green bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional soft-boiled egg.  I should have been in bed by six o’clock, and now it’s—­gracious, Barbara, it’s after eleven.  What do you mean by keeping the young up so late?”

As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, drew out a book.  “That’s the one you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I didn’t give it to you before because I wanted to talk, but we’ll read, sometimes, when we can.  Don’t forget to put the light in the window when it’s all right for me to come.  If I don’t, you’ll understand.  And please don’t work so hard.”

Barbara smiled.  “I have to earn a living for three healthy people,” she said, “and everybody is trying, by moral suasion, to prevent me from doing it.  Do you want us all piled up in the front yard in a nice little heap of bones before the Tower of Cologne is rebuilt?”