Lucy was of medium size, with hands and feet not too small. She had a rather generous figure, the waist large and bosom low. Her hair, fine in texture and not abundant, was of a nondescript shade of brown, and was arranged low over her ears. Her nose was extremely shapely, her mouth large, but so well cut as to be beautiful. Her grey eyes had a wonderful clarity and frankness of gaze. She could not be called pretty, partly because the impression of her personality suggested too much seriousness, and partly because the line from her ear to her chin was too long. She wore a simple house dress of wash goods. The gingham sleeve apron, which she had taken off before going to the front gate, hung over one arm. While not over strong physically Lucy suggested an atmosphere of wholesomeness. And she was direct, almost abrupt, in speech. Dimmie was a slim child of four with features and complexion like John’s, but he had his mother’s fine grey eyes. Dressed in clean white blouse and breeches, white shoes and socks, his yellow hair bobbed in Dutch fashion, he made a picture of health and buoyancy. “What a glorious rain, Lucy.” John chuckled exuberantly. “The train went through it like a ship in a storm.” “Did it?” She smiled, feeling his coat sleeve to see if it was damp. “Are your feet wet, John? And you too, Jim?” shaking hands warmly with Sprague. “No,” they both answered. “Just like chorus girls,” John added, at which they all laughed. “Don’t step in the water, dear,” Lucy cautioned Dimmie as they turned to go into the house. * * * * * The first thing Jim did, after hanging his hat and rain coat in the hall, was to offer to help put the dinner on, as this was his usual task on such occasions. “I don’t need any help,” said Lucy briskly, leading him back into the dining room. “You two boys fix yourselves some near cocktails while I finish. It’ll only take me a minute. You know where the ingredients are, Jim.” Jim mixed the cocktails, going out in the kitchen to the refrigerator for ice, and swearing when he could not find the shaker. “Where is it, Lucy?” he asked. “Why don’t you look for it?” “I have,” he protested. “Here it is.” She brought it from the pantry where he had just been. “If it had been a snake it would have bitten you.” “Say, but that soup smells good,” he exclaimed as she removed a cover and placed a tureen on the kitchen table. “What kind of soup is it?” “Wait and see,” she replied. “You go and fix that cocktail or the soup will get cold--and call John.” Jim obeyed. John came in from the living room, where he had been playing “The Evening Star” from _Tannhäuser_ on the piano, with many mistakes in the execution, and Lucy put the soup on. “Sit down,” she commanded. “You know your place, Jim. Where’s Dimmie?” “I’ll get him,” offered Jim, going out through the kitchen. “There’s some cocktail left for you,” he called back.