THEY were sitting about the fire-place in the big living-room, and a fire burned briskly for the cool September morning. In front of the fire, on a great rug, Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth, fresh from her bath, gurgled and reached out cooing hands to the fire. Her language could not be understood—not even by the dusky Jimmu Yoshitomo, who came and stood in the doorway and looked in with unfathomable eyes. But the words were very pointed and sweet and quick and had little laughs and chuckles behind them—all about things she used to know.... By and by—when she had learned proper ones, she would forget the things she used to know—or remember them only in her dreams, or some day when she met a stranger in the street—and half stopped and went on—listening to the little bells that were ringing somewhere—far off.... She lunged toward the fire and fell afoul of her toes and laughed and seized them and gazed at them intently.

Uncle William, a hand on either knee—gazed in rapt content. “She’s about the littlest and the nicest—” he said, “I didn’t reckon she ’d be like that.”

He looked at Bodet for sympathy. Benjy smiled and swung the long glasses playfully toward the rug.... The person on the rug regarded them a minute—then she adjusted her muscles and made a little hitching motion toward the glasses—they were round and they glittered and went back and forth—and ought to be stopped.... She reached up a hand and laughed and toppled over—and looked up and saw Andy’s grin somewhere.... For a long minute she gazed back at it—then she went on hands and knees across the rug—flying from fate.

Sergia reached down and gathered her up, smoothing the white dress. “I put her into short clothes a week ago,” she said proudly....

“She couldn’t stan’ up a little now, Sergia, could she!” suggested Uncle William.

“Never!” Sergia looked at him and patted the round legs. “She won’t walk for ten weeks probably,” she said kindly.

Uncle William’s face had fallen a little. “She ’ll be quite a spell gettin’ down to my house,” he said wistfully.

“I’ll bring her tomorrow.” The baby gurgled and reached out fat hands and Uncle William bent forward.

“Kind o’ takes to me!” he said. He held out tentative hands, waggling the fingers, and the child looked at them gravely, and leaned forward a little, and broke into glee as Uncle William seized her and swung her toward the ceiling.

“She’s not afraid of you,” said Sergia proudly.

“Afraid of me!... I reckon she couldn’t be afraid of Uncle William—!” There was something a little misty behind the big spectacles... the blue eyes looked out at the child from forgotten seas. She grasped the tufts of beard and tugged at them, rocking hard, and making remarks to them.

Uncle William smiled in triumph and seized the hand. “I reckon I might as well take her down to my house,” he said. “She’s got to learn the way sometime.”

Sergia’s face was a little alarmed—“You couldn’t take care of her.”

“I don’t know why,” said Uncle William, “I reckon I can take all the care she needs—She don’t need any entertainin’.” He gazed at her fondly and chucked her a little.

“She has to be fed,” said Sergia.

“I’ll tend to feedin’ her myself,” said Uncle William, “Nobody ever starved—to my house. You got a little bunnet for her somewheres?” He put his big hand on the shining head.

Sergia looked at them reflectively. “She has to have special milk, you know—?”

“I get mine to Andy’s,” said Uncle William. “It’s just as special as any, ain’t it—Andy’s milk?”

Sergia smiled a little. “It isn’t that—It has to be prepared—sterilized, you know.”

Uncle William looked at her sympathetically—“Now, that’s too bad—and she looks so healthy, too!” He held her off, and looked at her, and danced her a little as an experiment—and broke her all up into little laughs.... He chuckled softly. “I reckon I’ll hev to take her,” he said.

“We-l-l—” Sergia went slowly toward the kitchen and returned with a bottle in each hand. “I’m going to let you take her,” she said magnanimously. She laid the bottles on the table and brought the little bonnet and put it on, patting it and talking little, foolish words to it—“There!” She stood off and looked at them, doubtfully. “You must feed her as soon as you get there, and then again in three hours.” She held out the bottles.

“Yes’m.” Uncle William stored a bottle in either pocket—where they would balance—and started toward the door.

“You must bring her back before dinner, you know.” She was following them protectingly, “—and I think I’ll come down by and by,” she added.

Uncle William turned and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry a mite, Sergia—There’s me and Celia to take care of her and we’re goin’ to hev the best time ’t ever was—The’ can’t anything happen to her—not whilst I’m round.”

He strode proudly out............