And bravely she had decided she would tell no one of this heartache, for one day she had surprised her mother gently crying over the piles of undergarments they had made ready. Mrs. Lee had tried to laugh as she wiped away her tears. "I'm just foolish, darling, only it seems such a little while ago that you were a baby, my first baby--and here you are going off to college, away from me!" So not for the world would Barbara have distressed her mother by showing the ache in her own heart. In answer she had thrown her arms about her mother's neck in a passion of affection. "I'll always, always, always love home best," she vowed. And this would not be hard, for the Lees' home, made beautiful by love rather than wealth, was of the sort that would always be "home," and no matter how far one of them might travel or in what gay places linger, would always be "best of all!" The Lees' city home was not at all like Keineth's old home in New York, nor like Aunt Josephine's pretentious house on Riverside Drive. Though it seemed right in the heart of the city and only a stone's throw from the business centre, it was on a quiet, broad street and had a little yard of its own all around it. The house was built of wood and needed painting, but the walks and lawns were neatly kept. Within it was simple and roomy, with broad halls and wide windows, shaded by the elms outside. Its walls were brown-toned, and yellow hangings covered the white frilled curtains at the windows. There was one big living-room, with rows and rows of bookshelves, easy chairs and soft rugs, a worn davenport in front of the fire, tables with lamps, and books and magazines spread out upon them in inviting disorder. There were flowers here, too, as at Overlook, and Peggy's bird had its home in the big bay of the dining-room, where he welcomed each morning's sunshine with glad song. Each little girl had a room of her own, too, hung with bright chintz, with covers on the bureau and bed to match. Peggy's and Keineth's had a door opening from one to the other. Billy with his beloved wireless and other things that Peggy called "truck" was happily established in the back of the house. In a twinkling the entire family was settled in the city, "just as though we'd never been away," Peggy declared. Then two days later Barbara started off for college. The parting was merry. The girls had helped her pack her trunks; sitting on her bed they had superintended the important process of "doing up" her hair; and then had taken turns carrying to the station the smart patent-leather dressing-case which had been her father's gift. Everyone smiled up to the last moment before the train pulled out of the station--then everyone coughed a great deal and Mr. Lee blew his nose and Mrs. Lee wiped her eyes and Peggy sighed. "I'd hate to be grown-up," she admitted, and as she walked away she held her mother's hand tightly.