He had a stupid supper at the almost deserted club, fancying sensitively that the few men sitting at nearby tables were pitying him. Then, following instinct rather than intention as he started out for his usual walk, he found himself headed in the direction of his former home. It was several miles, but he walked them quickly. In the familiar street which he had avoided since he had left Cecily, he felt a desire to escape notice. But he would not yield to that and kept his head up as he went along the side of the street opposite his own house. There were lights in the house. That made him feel a little queer. He’d known of course that the place was inhabited, that life was going on there as usual, but the sight of the lights made it so much more real. The wrought iron porch lanterns brought out the holly on the door. It was not a wreath this year. A sprig of green tied to the knocker. With the strangest clandestine feeling, Dick crossed the street and stood beside the gate. Three months and more since he had opened that high iron gate whose beautiful workmanship had made him so proud. He opened it now softly and went up the side of the brick walk, in the shadow cast by the great fir trees. There, under the living-room windows, he saw them all--Ellen holding the baby, Dorothea and Leslie on the floor beside the tree and Cecily in the corner of the big couch. As he saw, he knew what he had been hoping. There was no one else there. The children had grown so unbelievably in three months! Cecily heard the door open. She and Ellen turned their heads simultaneously, and then at a swift movement of Cecily’s, Ellen sat still and let Cecily go through the hall. “Dropped in to see the tree,” said Dick, trying to be jocular. Then he held out his arms and Cecily crept into them, both of them too glad for the blessed relief which had come to their starved emotions to question the right or safety of such an end to their separation. It was such sheer joy to be together again, to see each other, to deliberately forget all issues in the hour of delight. Dick had not let himself think of his hunger for the children. But to hold them now, play the old games with them, hear them laugh, try their toys---- “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in,” he said apologetically, “or I’d have brought some presents for all of you.” The tears in her eyes and the joy of her smile were consolation for that. Because the children were so small and ready to accept all events and because Ellen’s eyes never pried, it was very easy for them. After a while the children had to go to bed and Dick and Cecily took them up together in a riot of fun. It was all as it had been, thought Dick. He drew the familiar blue blanket up over Leslie, who was too tired to struggle and resent being put to bed. And Dorothea put her arms around his neck in that same baby way.