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 his; so the two old people undressed and went to bed as they had for fifty years, talking of little incidents of the day, how their children were looking and feeling and of their own bodily ailments. Lucas's mind was not on his conversation; and Sarah did not expect it to be when he was talking only with her. When he stretched out his long form in bed, one strong, muscular arm reached to her pillow and he held her thin body for a moment.

"Next week Saturday is Cecilia's birthday," she whispered. "We must start off a gift to her by to-morrow."

"Yes, Sarah," he said. "Let's see; she's forty-six? Can she be?"

"Forty-seven, Lucas."

"It was snowy that night and colder than this, Sarah. I've never forgotten that. Thursday it was; the doctor said there was no need to start to Traverse before Sunday. And Thursday—I sent Quinlan—"

The slight little body suddenly jerked in his arms at mention of the name; but the strong man held steady. "Quinlan," he repeated the name evenly. "I sent him to try to make Traverse for the doctor that night—but the baby came to you and me alone, Sarah, with the lumberjacks outside."

He raised in bed, bent over and kissed her. "Good night, girl," he said. "Good night, boy," she replied.

He rolled back into his own bed and forthwith went to sleep. But Sarah stayed awake. Thoughts of the cabin in the tall trees of the old Michigan forest forty-seven years ago continued in her mind with images of her boy as he had been at that time of the birth of their baby and later, when it had occurred,—that circum-