But there is the picture on my mind,—so clear and strong that I can hardly think the scientists tell the truth when they say that our bodies are made entirely new every seven years. I am still a child at the district school. The day is over, and I have come back down the long white country road to the little home. My older brother and sister have come from school with me. As we open the front gate we have an instinct that there is “company in the house”; how we know, I cannot tell,—but our childish vision has caught some sign that tells us the family is not alone. “Company” always brought mixed emotions to the boy. We never were quite sure whether we liked it or not. We had more and better things for supper than when we were alone; we had more things like pie and cake and preserves and cheese, and we did not have to eat so much of the things we liked less, such as bread-and-butter and potatoes and mush and milk. Then, too, we were not so likely to get scolded when strangers were around. I remember that I used to get some of the boys to go home with me, when I had done something wrong that I feared had been found out and would get me into trouble; and we often took some of the children home with us when we wanted to ask permission to do something or go somewhere,—or, better still, we got them to ask for us. These things, of course, were set down on the good side of having company. But, on the other hand, we always had a clean tablecloth, and had to be much more particular about the way we ate. We had to make more use of our knives and forks and spoons, and less of our fingers; and we always had to put on our boots, and wash our faces and hands, and have our hair combed before we could go in to supper, or even into the front room where the company was. And when we spoke we had to say “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am.” And we were not supposed to ask for anything at the table a second time; and if anything was passed around the second time and came to us, we were not to take it, but pass it on as though we already had enough. And we were always to say “Please” and “Thank you,” and such useless words,—just as though we said them every day of our lives. Sometimes, of course, we would forget, and ask for something without stopping to say “Please,” and then our mother would look sharply at us, as if she would do something to us when the company was gone, and then she would ask us in the sweetest way if we had not forgotten something, and we would have to begin all over and say “Please.” Well, I remember that on this particular evening we all went round to the back door, for we knew there was company in the house; and when we went into the kitchen, our mother told us to be very still, and to wash our feet and put on our stockings and shoes, for Aunt Louisa was there. We asked how long she was going to stay; and she said she was not quite sure, but probably at least until after supper.