"Oh no, Evelyn; that's our old soup tureen without its cover—the very same one we keep string and things in on the kitchen dresser. It's supposed to be a wassail bowl."
"Who's this darling little boy in a bathing suit?"
"That's Laddie Baylow—he was August. He was shell-shocked in the war, but they thought he was all right, and then one day he just walked out of the house and they've never seen him since. Isn't it awful? They don't know whether he's alive or dead—at least, everybody thinks he must be dead except his poor mother; she thinks he'll just come walking in any minute. You know she turns down his bed every night, and keeps a plate of apples up in his room, and she'll hardly leave the house. Poor Mr. Baylow can hardly get her out for ten minutes, she's so afraid of not being there when Laddie comes home; she's just stretched tight all the time. It really would be better if she knew he was dead, than to go on hoping against hope this way."
"Oh no! Oh, people must keep hoping! Even if you know that hope is empty, you can't stop."
They looked at the picture again. Happiness for this child, sorrow for this one, yet nothing to tell which was coming, in the round faces. If one could have been ahead, and done something
"Don't you miss having the studio to work in?"
"Oh, Evelyn, I do! Sometimes I want to paint so
