“The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes. And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke. ’Tis a fragrant retrospection—for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfume from the blossoms of the heart: And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine—— When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweet-heart of mine.” He fell silent; then his lips moved again: “And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. I can see——” Suddenly he broke off, and groaned aloud: “My Lord!” he said all in a breath. “And thirty-five years old—blame near thirty-six!” He needs interpretation, this unfortunate Lucius. He meant that it was inexplicable and disgraceful for a man of his age to be afraid of a boy of seven and a girl of five. He had never been afraid of anybody else’s children. No; it had to be _hers_! And that was why he was afraid of them; he knew the truth well enough: he was afraid of them because they _were_ hers. He was a man who had always “got on” with children beautifully; but he was afraid of Maud and Bill. He was afraid of what they would do to him and of what they would think of him. There, in brief, is the overwhelming part that children can play in true romance! “Lordy, Lordy!” sighed Lucius Brutus Allen. “_Oh_, Lordy!” But at last he bestirred himself. He knew that Saruly, his elderly darky cook, must be waiting for him with impatience; she would complain bitterly of dishes overcooked because of his tardiness. Having glanced down into the Square and found it virtually devoid of life, for this was the universal hour of supper, he set his brown straw hat upon his head, and took the parasol under his arm—not because he meant to return it. He took it with him merely for the pleasure of its society. Upon the bottom step of the flight of stairs that led down to the street, he found seated a small figure in a white “sailor suit.” This figure rose and spoke politely. “How do you do?” it said. “Are you Uncle Lucius?” “Who—— What’s your name?” “Bill. Bill Ricketts,” said Bill. Lucius made a hasty motion to reascend the stairs, but Bill confidingly proffered a small, clean hand that Mr. Allen was constrained to accept. Once having accepted it, he found himself expected to retain it. “Mamma lef’ me sittin’ here to wait till you came downstairs,” Bill explained. “That man that came out said he couldn’t say but he was pretty sure you were up there. She told me to wait till either you came downstairs or she came back for me. She wants her parasol. Come on!” “Come on where?” “Up to your house,” said Bill. “She lef’ Maud waitin’ up _there_ for you.”