THEY were sitting about the fire-place in the big living-room, and a fire burned briskly for the cool September morning. In front of the fire, on a great rug, Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth, fresh from her bath, gurgled and reached out cooing hands to the fire. Her language could not be understood—not even by the dusky Jimmu Yoshitomo, who came and stood in the doorway and looked in with unfathomable eyes. But the words were very pointed and sweet and quick and had little laughs and chuckles behind them—all about things she used to know.... By and by—when she had learned proper ones, she would forget the things she used to know—or remember them only in her dreams, or some day when she met a stranger in the street—and half stopped and went on—listening to the little bells that were ringing somewhere—far off.... She lunged toward the fire and fell afoul of her toes and laughed and seized them and gazed at them intently. Uncle William, a hand on either knee—gazed in rapt content. “She’s about the littlest and the nicest—” he said, “I didn’t reckon she ’d be like that.” He looked at Bodet for sympathy. Benjy smiled and swung the long glasses playfully toward the rug.... The person on the rug regarded them a minute—then she adjusted her muscles and made a little hitching motion toward the glasses—they were round and they glittered and went back and forth—and ought to be stopped.... She reached up a hand and laughed and toppled over—and looked up and saw Andy’s grin somewhere.... For a long minute she gazed back at it—then she went on hands and knees across the rug—flying from fate. Sergia reached down and gathered her up, smoothing the white dress. “I put her into short clothes a week ago,” she said proudly.... “She couldn’t stan’ up a little now, Sergia, could she!” suggested Uncle William. “Never!” Sergia looked at him and patted the round legs. “She won’t walk for ten weeks probably,” she said kindly. Uncle William’s face had fallen a little. “She ’ll be quite a spell gettin’ down to my house,” he said wistfully. “I’ll bring her tomorrow.” The baby gurgled and reached out fat hands and Uncle William bent forward. “Kind o’ takes to me!” he said. He held out tentative hands, waggling the fingers, and the child looked at them gravely, and leaned forward a little, and broke into glee as Uncle William seized her and swung her toward the ceiling. “She’s not afraid of you,” said Sergia proudly. “Afraid of me!... I reckon she couldn’t be afraid of Uncle William—!” There was something a little misty behind the big spectacles... the blue eyes looked out at the child from forgotten seas. She grasped the tufts of beard and tugged at them, rocking hard, and making remarks to them. Uncle William smiled in triumph and seized the hand. “I reckon I might as well take her down to my house,” he said. “She’s got to learn the way sometime.” Sergia’s face was a little alarmed—“You couldn’t take care of her.”