After all, what was there of his and Angy's here? Their garments they did not need now. They would leave them behind for the other old couple that was to come. There was nothing else but some simple gifts. He took up a pair of red wristlets that Mrs. Homan had knit, and tucked them in his new overcoat pocket. He also took Abigail's bottle of "Jockey Club" which he had despised so a few days ago, and tucked that in his watch-pocket. When he bought himself a watch, he would buy a new clock for the dining-room down-stairs, too,--a clock with no such asthmatic strike as the present one possessed. All his personal belongings--every one of them gifts--he found room for in his pockets. Angy had even less than he. Yet they had come practically with nothing--and compared with that nothing, what they carried now seemed much. Angy hesitated over the pillow-shams. Did they belong to them or to the new couple to come? Abe gazed at the shams too. They had been given to him and Angy last Christmas by all the sisters. They were white muslin with white cambric frills, and in their centers was embroidered in turkey-red cotton, "Mother," on one pillow, "Father," on the other. Every sister in the Home had taken at least one stitch in the names. Father and Mother--not Angy and Abe! Why Father and Mother? A year ago no one could have foreseen the fortune, nor have prophesied the possession of the room by another elderly couple. Angy drew near to Abe, and Abe to Angy. They locked arms and stood looking at the pillows. He saw, and she saw, the going back to the old bedroom in the old home across the woods and over the field--the going back. And in sharp contrast they each recalled the first time that they had stepped beneath that roof nearly half a century ago,--the first home-coming,--when her mother-heart and his father-heart had been filled with the hope of children--children to bless their marriage, children to complete their home, children to love, children to feed them with love in return. "Let's adopt some leetle folks," said Angy, half in a whisper. "I'm afeard the old place'll seem lonesome without--" "Might better adopt the sisters"; he spoke almost gruffly. "I allers did think young 'uns would be the most comfort tew yew after they growed up." "A baby is dretful cunnin'," Angy persisted. "But," she added sadly, "I don't suppose a teethin' mite would find much in common with us." "Anyway," vowed Abe, suddenly beginning to unfasten the pillow-shams, "these belong ter us, an' I'm a-goin' ter take 'em." They went down-stairs silently, the shams wrapped in a newspaper carried under his arm. "Waal, naow,"--he tried to speak cheerfully as they rejoined the others, and he pushed his way toward the dining-room,--"I'll go an' git my cup an' sasser." But Miss Abigail blocked the door, again blushing, again confused.