They talked long together of people whom they had known in the past, and Katy, being a little tired, was glad to rest, and sat still with her hands folded, looking about the front yard. There were some kinds of flowers that she never had seen before.

“This is the one that looks like my mother,” her father said, and touched Katy’s shoulder to remind her to stand up and let herself be seen. “Judge Masterson saw the resemblance; we met him at his gate this morning.”

“Yes, she certain does look like your mother, John,” said the old man, looking pleasantly at Katy, who found that she liked him better than at first. “She does, certain; the best of young folks is, they remind us of the old ones. ’Tis nateral to cling to life, folks say, but for me, I git impatient at times. Most everybody’s gone now, an’ I want to be goin’. ’Tis somethin’ before me, an’ I want to have it over with. I want to be there ’long o’ the rest o’ the folks. I expect to last quite a while though; I may see ye couple o’ times more, John.”

John Hilton responded cheerfully, and the children were urged to pick some flowers. The old man awed them with his impatience to be gone. There was such a townful of people about him and he seemed as lonely as if he were the last survivor of a former world. Until that moment they had felt as if everything was just beginning.

“Now I want to buy somethin’ pretty for your mother,” said Mr. Hilton as they went soberly away down the street, the children keeping fast hold of his hands. “By now the old horse will have eat his dinner and had a good rest, so pretty soon we can jog along home. I’m goin’ to take you round by the academy, and the old North meeting-house where Dr. Barstow used to preach. Can’t you think o’ somethin’ that your mother ’d want?” he asked suddenly, confronted by a man’s difficulty of choice.

“She was talkin’ about wantin’ a new pepper-box, one day; the top o’ the old one won’t stay on,” suggested Susan Ellen, with delightful readiness. “Can’t we have some candy, father?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said John Hilton, smiling and swinging her hand to and fro as they walked. “I feel as if some would be good myself. What’s all this?” They were passing a photographer’s doorway with its enticing array of portraits. “I do declare!” he exclaimed, excitedly, “I’m goin’ to have our pictures taken; ’twill please your mother more’n a little.”

This was, perhaps, the greatest triumph of the day, except the delightful meeting with the judge; they sat in a row, with the father in the middle, and there was no doubt as to the excellence of the likeness. The best hats had to be taken off because they cast a shadow, but they were not missed, as their owners had feared. Both Susan Ellen and Katy looked their brightest and best; their eager young faces would forever shine there; the joy of the holiday was mirrored in the little picture. They did not know why their father was so pleased with it; they would not know until age had dowered them with the riches of association and remembrance.

Just at nightfall the Hiltons reached home again, tired out and happy. Katy had climbed over into the front seat beside her father, because that was always her place when they went to church on Sundays. It was a cool evening, there was a fresh sea wind that brought a light mist with it, and the sky was fast growing cloudy. Somehow the children looked different; it seemed to their mother as if they had grown older and taller since they went away in the morning, and as if they belonged to the town now as much as to the country. The greatness of their day’s experience had left her far behind, the day had been silent and lonely without them, and she had had their supper ready, and been watching anxiously, ever since five o’clock. As for the children themselves they had little to say at first—they had eaten their luncheon early on the way to Topham. Susan Ellen was childishly cross, but Katy was pathetic and wan. They could hardly wait to show the picture, and their mother was as much pleased as everybody had expected.