Age warms itself in reflected fires. I was sitting on my favorite bench in Our Square some weeks later, meditating with a mild glow upon the outcome of the encounter between Carlo and his Tiger (for which, by the way, the Bonnie Lassie put in a wholly unjustified claim of half-credit), when two figures walking quite close together approached and stopped in front of me. They were very good to look at, those two, as youth and joy and the splendor of love are always good for old age to look at. I welcomed them to a corner of my bench, facing the Varick mansion, which was poor policy. “So you haven't gone to the Far East?” I said to Miss Paula. “No,” she said, “father decided not to take me. He has gone for his health.” “Nothing serious, I trust,” I said politely. “He is Suffering,” said Miss Paula primly, “from unrequited objections.” Her smiling and happy regard rested on Carlo and then passed dreamily to the squat and broad and drab old mansion facing us. “Why!” she cried, “the cage is still there!” “So it is,” I answered as nonchalantly as I could. “Then they didn't tear it down.” “Apparently they didn't.” “You told me they were going to. And you told Ang--Carlo they were going to.” “Did I? So I did. They must have changed their minds.” “Who ordered it down?” inquired Carlo mildly. “The fire department,” I said promptly. “On account of the inflammable nature of steel wire, I suppose.” “I mean the sanitary inspectors,” I hastily corrected myself. “For fear that somebody might sleep in it and catch cold! Of course!” “Well, the fact is--” “The fact is,” said Miss Paula Varick, “that you're a wicked old, scheming old, blessed old fibber.” And she then and there pounced upon me and kissed me under the left ear, in the full and astounded sight of Our Square. Carlo's hand covered hers as it rested on my shoulder, and we three lifted our faces again to the cage, standing unchanged on the housetop, gaunt and grim and lifeless. As we looked, the sun, striking through the edges of a cloud,--such as angels descend from,--touched the harsh, dull metal to flaming crimson and glowing gold, and made of it a living glory, as love makes a living glory of life. THE LITTLE RED 'DOCTOR OF OUR SQUARE