“I can undress myself,” he announced, with modest complacence.

“Can you?” said Charles Rideout.  “How about buttons?”

“I can’t do buttons,” Diego qualified firmly.

“Well, I think—­I can—­remember—­how to unbutton—­a boy!” said the man, with his pleasant deliberation, as he began on the button that was always catching itself on Diego’s hair.  Diego cheerfully extended little arms and legs in turn for the disrobing process.  Presently a small heap of garments lay on the floor, and the children were quite delicious in baggy blue flannels.  All the four were laughing and absorbed, when James Senior came in a few minutes later, and found them.

“Jim,” said his wife, eagerly, rising to greet him, and to bring him, cold and ruddy, to the fireplace, “this is Mr. Rideout, dear!”

“How do you do, sir?” said Jim, stretching out his hand, and with a smile on his tired, keen, young face.  “Don’t get up.  I see that my boy is making himself at home.”

“Yes, sir; we’ve been having a great time getting undressed,” said the visitor.

“Jim,” Anne went on radiantly, “Mr. Rideout and his wife lived here years ago, when they were just married, and their children were born here too!”

“No—­is that so!” Jim was as much pleased and surprised as Anne, as he settled himself with Virginia’s web of silky hair against his shoulder.  “Built it, perhaps, Mr. Rideout?”

“No.  No, it was eight or ten years old, then.  I used to pass it, walking to the office.  We had a little office down on Meig’s pier then.  As a matter of fact, my wife never saw it until I brought her home to it.  She was the only child of a widow, very formal Southern people, and we weren’t engaged very long.  So my brother and I furnished the house; used—­” his eyes twinkled—­“used to buy our pictures in a lump.  We decided we needed about four to each room, and we’d go to a dealer’s, and pick out a dozen of ’em, and ask him to make us a price!”

“Just like men!” said the woman.

“I suppose so.  I know that some of those pictures disappeared after Rose had been here a while!  And we had linen curtains—­”

“Not linen!” protested Anne.

“Very—­pretty—­little—­ruffled—­curtains they were,” he affirmed seriously.  “Linen, with blue bands, in this bedroom, and red bands upstairs.  And things—­things—­” he made a vague gesture—­“things on the dressing-tables and bed to match ’em!  I remember that on our wedding day, when I brought Rose home, we had a little maid here, and dinner was all ready, but no, Rose must run up and down stairs looking at everything in her little wedding dress—­” Suddenly came another pause.  The room was dark now, but for the firelight.  Little Jinny was asleep in her father’s arms, Diego blinking manfully.  Neither husband nor wife, whose hands had found each other, cared to break the silence.  But after a while Anne said: