stay; the whole little household was like a ship that shortens sail, and makes all snug against a storm.  As a further complication, business matters began to go badly for Jim.  Salaries were cut, new rules made, and an unpopular manager installed at the office.  Anne struggled bravely to hide her mental and physical discomfort from Jim.  Jim, cut to the heart to have to add anything to her care just now, touched her with a thousand little tendernesses; a joke over the burned pudding, a little name she had not heard since honeymoon days, a hundred barefoot expeditions about the bedroom in the dark, when Jinny awoke crying in the night, or Diego could not sleep because he was so “firsty.”  Tender and intimate days these, but the strain of them told on both husband and wife.

Things were at this point on the particular dark afternoon that found Anne with the two children at the window.  All three were still staring out into the early dusk when Helma came in from the kitchen with an armful of damp little garments: 

“Ef aye sprad dese hare, dey be dray en no tayme?” suggested Helma.

“Oh, yes!  Spread them here by all means; then you can get a good start with your ironing to-morrow!” Anne agreed, rousing herself from her revery.  “Put them all around the fire.  And I must straighten this room!” she said, half to herself; “it’s getting on to five!”

Followed by the stumbling children, she went briskly about the room, reducing it to order with a practised hand.  Toys were piled in a large basket, scraps tossed into the fire, sewing materials gathered together and put out of sight, the rugs laid smoothly, the window-shades drawn.  Anne “brushed up” the floor, pushed chairs against the wall, put a shovelful of coals on the fire, and finally took her rocker at the hearth, and sat with Virginia in her arms, and Diego beside her, while two silver bowls of bread and milk were finished to the last drop.

“There!” said she, pleasantly warmed by these exertions, “now for nighties!  And Daddy can come as soon as he likes.”

But Virginia was fretful and sleepy now, and did not want to be put down.  So Diego manfully departed kitchenward with the empty bowls, and Anne, baby, rocker, and all, hitched her way across the room to the old chest of drawers by the hall door, and managed to secure the small sleeping garments with the little daughter still in her arms.  She had hitched her way back to the fireplace again, and was very busy with buttons and strings, when Helma, appearing in the doorway, announced a visitor.

“Who?” said Anne, puzzled.  “Did the bell ring?  I didn’t hear it.  What is it?”

“Jantl’man,” said Helma.

“A gentleman?” Anne, very much at a loss, got up, and carrying Jinny, and followed by the barefoot Diego, went to the door.  She had a reassuring and instant impression that it was a very fine—­even a magnificent—­old man, who was standing in the twilight of the little hall.  Anne had never seen him before, but there was no question in her heart as to his reception, even at this first glance.