She opened the gate of the old place, and noticed that a hinge was loose; and that the pickets needed painting. The grass was long too in the front yard. She stopped a moment looking at it and at the low frame house. That too needed a coat of paint--why, it was shabby, it was all going to seed. Her brow wrinkled as she wondered why she hadn't noticed this before--how long had it been this way? Her father had been used always to keep the place trim and neat. Was he getting too old to look after it, or to care? She felt a pang.... She must send down a gardener to fix up the yard. She opened the creaking front door and entered the narrow hall. The familiar odour met her--old wallpaper, old furniture, a slight closeness, a faint smell of cooking. But she liked it--it was home. She went into the sitting-room, where the housekeeper was setting the table for Dr. Lowell's supper. "Oh, Mrs. Hansen, isn't Father home yet?" she asked. "Yes, Mrs. Carlin, he has just come. Out to the stable yet." The rosy-faced Swedish woman, in crisp calico dress and white apron, went out into the kitchen. She came by the day to "do for" Dr. Lowell, and he lived alone in the old house. Mary glanced critically at the table, wrinkled her nose, and sat down in the rocker by the window, where streaks of gold and red glimmered, making a rosy light within. Nothing had been changed in this room, or for that matter in the house since her mother's death. In fact, she couldn't remember when it had not looked just this way. The brown carpet was a little more worn, perhaps, the brown and gilt wallpaper a little more faded. There was dust on the furniture that would not have been there in her mother's time. But the old clock ticked to the same dreamy tune on the shelf, coals glowed in the open stove, the cat stretched itself and yawned in the armchair, the glass of cream stood as always by her father's plate. In this house it always seemed afternoon, verging on evening.... Yes, and there, in the grass under the window, the sound always associated with home--the faint wiry chirping of the crickets.... Short bright autumn days--long cold nights drawing on--was that why they were so plaintive? She heard her father come into the kitchen, and then the splashing of water. Washing up in the kitchen--lazy father! Probably he even kept a comb out there, behind the looking-glass! Men get shiftless, living by themselves. Or perhaps he was just too tired to go upstairs. Yes, when he came in, she saw his thin hair had been freshly combed--and he did look very tired. And alas, how old he looked! Why hadn't she noticed that he was getting old? He was delighted to see her, still more when she got up and kissed him with uncommon warmth. "Well, now, this is nice! Can't you have supper with me?" he asked happily, lifting the cat out of his chair and sitting down. Mary drew up a chair opposite him and put her elbows on the table.