The birds, done with their summer housekeeping and child-rearing, had time to sing again. But it was all low, plaintive songs, as if they said: "We must go away from the place in which we have been so happy. Will we be sure to come another spring?" Now and then a branch stirred. The grass had been cut for the last time, and there were sweet little winrows that filled the air with fragrance. He was quiet, for he liked to hear her enchanting talk. It had turned upon when she was a little girl, and how queer things were! It didn't seem as if everything could change so. And what a great gay time they had at the Beekmans' when Stephen was married! So they walked around, and were at an entrance. A cabman put down a woman and some children just as Mr. Andersen had said, "We were going up there some day, you know; we ought to go before everything has faded." "Yes," she made answer. "See here, we might get this cab and go up now"--looking up with eager inquiry. Dickens had not created Mr. Wemmick with his delightful off-hand premeditated happenings; but other people had them even then. She made no demur, but assented with her innocent eyes full of exquisite sweetness. He helped her in and sat along side of her. He had all kinds of young lover-like thoughts, and really he so seldom had her alone. He wanted to snatch up the hand and kiss it. It made such a tempting background for the lace mitt. No one but old ladies wore gloves, except on very fine occasions. And her slim little fingers, with their pink nails, were so pretty! If he could even hold her hand! But they jolted over rough streets, through little clumps of Irish villages, and laughed over the pigs, and geese, and children. Then wastes again, with long, straight lines where streets were to be. "That is the house over there," she said. "I wonder if you could walk back? Or shall I keep the cab?" "Oh, no. It is so delightful to walk!" Ah, how the hand of improvement had disfigured everything! leaving ugly, square, naked blocks, with here and there a house, then a space where the trees were still standing; but the children despoiled the lilacs and dogwood in the spring, and thrashed the lindens and black walnuts all the later summer, until the poor things had a weary, drooping aspect. Over here was the great garden, and a street ran through it. The old house was shabby, and needed painting; and most of the vines had been cut away. The steps were broken. Several families inhabited it now. The cousin had thrown it up in disgust. But the young man saw it through her eyes, glorified with the glamour of childhood. Slim young Dolly, Aunt Gitty netting, the ladies in rocking-chairs with their sewing under the trees, Mr. Beckman and Katschina, and the tea on little tables; and the boys she was afraid of.