“I thought so, and that accounts for my being late.  I saw a beautiful sunset—­I saw it with my soul.”

“Give me your coat, Ambrose.”  The older woman stood at his side, longing to do him some small service.

“Thank you, Miriam; you are always kind.”

The tiny living-room was filled with relics of past luxury.  Fine pictures, in tarnished frames, hung on the dingy walls, and worn rugs covered the floor.  The furniture was old mahogany, beautifully cared for, but decrepit, nevertheless, and the ancient square piano, outwardly, at least, showed every year of its age.

Still, the room had “atmosphere,” of the indefinable quality that some people impart to a dwelling-place.  Entering, one felt refinement, daintiness, and the ability to live above mere externals.  Barbara had, very strongly, the house-love which belongs to some rare women.  And who shall say that inanimate things do not answer to our love of them, and diffuse, between our four walls, a certain gracious spirit of kindliness and welcome?

In the dining-room, where the table was set for supper, there were marked contrasts.  A coarse cloth covered the table, but at the head of it was overlaid a remnant of heavy table-damask, the worn places carefully hidden.  The china at this place was thin and fine, the silver was solid, and the cup from which Ambrose North drank was Satsuma.

On the coarse cloth were the heavy, cheap dishes and the discouraging knives and forks which were the portion of the others.  The five damask napkins remaining from the original stock of linen were used only by the blind man.

[Sidenote:  A Comforting Deceit]

For years the two women had carried on this comforting deceit, and the daily lie they lived, so lovingly, had become a sort of second nature.  They had learned to speak, casually, of the difficulty in procuring servants, and to say how much easier it was to do their own small tasks than to watch continually over fine linen and rare china intrusted to incompetent hands.  They talked of tapestries, laces, and jewels which had long ago been sold, and Barbara frequently wore a string of beads which, with a lump in her throat, she called “Mother’s pearls.”

Discovering that the sound of her crutches on the floor distressed him greatly, Barbara had padded the sharp ends with flannel and was careful to move about as little as possible when he was in the house.  She had gone, mouse-like, to her own particular chair while Miriam was hanging up his coat and hat and placing his easy chair near the open fire.  He sat down and held his slender hands close to the grateful warmth.

“It isn’t cold,” he said, “and yet I am glad of the fire.  To-day is the first day of Spring.”

“By the almanac?” laughed Barbara.

“No, according to the almanac, I believe, it has been Spring for ten days.  Nature does not move according to man’s laws, but she forces him to observe hers—­except in almanacs.”