That day the signal greeted us, and was only one of many joys, for it was a day of a thousand, warm, and full of the music of birds and of bees' wings and the odor of new blossoms and a great happiness. Elizabeth Brower stood at the gate, and beyond her we could see Uncle Eb on the veranda, sitting in his arm-chair. The dear woman put her fingers on her lips, and we knew what it meant. Uncle Eb had fallen asleep in the warm sunlight. We greeted her with hushed voices, and approached the venerable man, and sat down at his feet, smiling 8015 and looking up at his fine old face. He continued to sleep, all unconscious that we were near him. Soon we heard him call in his dreams, just above a whisper: “Here Fred! here Fred!” It was the name of our old dog, dead these many years. His nap must have taken him far back—perhaps into that long, westward journey through woods and fields. I took his hand in mine. He came out of his dreams with a start, and looked up at me. “What!” said he. “Wal, I declare.” He rose and clung to our hands and looked into our faces with a full heart. “A merry birthday!” I exclaimed. “See here, Bill Brower,” said he. “You've hearn o' the joy o' Paradise?” “Often,” I answered. 8016 “Wal, here's the key-note o' the song,” said Uncle Eb. “Now look here, Liz Brower,” he went on, “you tell 'Sindy we got to have the best dinner ever made by human hands. I'll bring some water.” Elizabeth, Uncle Eb, and that daughter of Grandma Bisnette were there. Hope and her mother went into the sitting-room, and I followed them, while Uncle Eb went to the well for water. She looked up at us proudly as we stood before her, side by side. “Turn around,” she said, “an' let me look at ye careful.” She surveyed the fit and material of Hope's gown with great satisfaction. “Look so ye was just goin' t' be married,” she remarked. We sat down presently upon the ancient hair-cloth sofa, with its knitted 8017 afghan of many colors lying folded against a curved arm. There were the old, plain, priceless things—the carpet, the pictures, a pyramid of plants and flowers in front of the large window, the centre-table, with its album and reading-lamp, the secretary and the what-not filled with books that were a part of our history. There were the ingredients of that receipt which, as it were, had made the intellectual cake of my boyhood: Josephus' History of the Jews (the flour, two heaping volumes); Ten Nights in a Bar-Room (the milk and water, one volume); Great Expectations, Bleak House), and David Copperfield (the sugar, three volumes); Pilgrim's Progress (the egg, one volume); Our Golden West (the spice, one volume); The Letters of Lord Chesterfield 8018 (the frosting, one large table volume); Wrigglesworth's Day of Doom (the fire that did the baking).