One of the cousins from Fordham had been down. The children were all to come up and spend the day to-morrow, and Mrs. Odell was invited to supper. Hanny felt a little lonely. If she could just see her father and Joe, and her mother and the boys. But she slept very soundly; and truly she wasn't homesick when they all came to breakfast in the morning. Janey hurried around and did her work, and they were soon ready to be off. A day meant all day, then. It was a pretty country walk, with here and there a house, and one little nest of Irish emigrants. Some of the women had their wash-tubs out of doors, and were working and gossiping. Then there was St. John's College, with its pretty, shady grounds, and on the other side a hotel where the trains stopped as they went up and down. After that, you climbed a long hill that wound a little, and on one side there was a row of beautiful, stately cherry-trees that were a sight to behold in their early bloom and in the rich harvest of fruiting. Just at the brow of the hill stood a rather quaint house, with the end to the street. It was built against the side of the hill. You ascended a row of stone steps, and reached the lower floor, which was a dining-room with a wide stone-paved area, then you went up several more steps to a cheerful sunny room, and this was the kitchen. When you went upstairs again, one side of the house was just even with the ground, and the other up a whole story. Here was a parlour, a sitting-room, several sleeping chambers; but what the little girl came to love most of all was a great piazza built over the area downstairs, with a row of wide steps. When you were up there, you were two stories above the street, and you could look down the long hill and all about. It was a beautiful prospect. Afterward, the little girl found some chalets in Switzerland that made her think of this odd house that had been added to since the first cottage was built. There was always a host of people in the old house. Hospitality must have been written on its very gates, for relatives, unto the third and fourth generation, were continually made welcome: a sweet, placid grandmother who had seen her daughter, the housemother, laid away to her silent resting-place, and who had tried to supply her place to the children; the father; the aunt who took part of the care; the sons and daughters, some of whom had grown up and married, and whose children made glad the old home. There was a houseful of them now; but there was a wide out-of-doors for them to play in. A few hundred feet farther up, where the road turned and ran off to Kingsbridge, as well as to the Harlem River, stood the village smithy; and the Major, who had been in the War of 1812, had relegated the business mostly to his sons. He enjoyed the coming and going, the bright young faces, and had a hearty welcome for the children, though he sometimes pretended to scold them.