the corner of the kitchen table—which was not going to the farm-house. That house flowered hopefully in its new tenants' minds. Felicia saw it, tucked between its orchards, gray roof above gnarled limbs, its wide stone doorstep inviting one to sit down and look at the view of the bay. And there would be no need of spending anything there except that fifteen dollars a month—"and something for food," Felicia thought, "which oughtn't to be much, there in the country with hens and things."
It amused Kirk highly—going to bed in an empty room. He put his clothes on the floor, because he could find no other place for them. Felicia remonstrated and suggested the end of the bed.
"Everything else you own is packed, you know," said she. "You'd better preserve those things carefully."
"Sing to me," he said, when he was finally tucked in. "It's the last night—and—everything's so ugly. I want to pretend it's just the same. Sing 'Do-do, petit frère,' Phil."
Felicia sat on the edge of the bed and sang the little old French lullaby. She had sung it to him often when she was quite a small girl, and
