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“You'll find it old-fashioned — what do you call it? — Mid-Victorian. I left it as is, so you could make any changes you felt were necessary.” Kennicott sounded doubtful for the first time since he had come back to his own.

“It's a real home!” She was moved by his humility. She gaily motioned good-by to the Clarks. He unlocked the door — he was leaving the choice of a maid to her, and there was no one in the house. She jiggled while he turned the key, and scampered in. . . . It was next day before either of them remembered that in their honeymoon camp they had planned that he should carry her over the sill.

In hallway and front parlor she was conscious of dinginess and lugubriousness and airlessness, but she insisted, “I'll make it all jolly.” As she followed Kennicott and the bags up to their bedroom she quavered to herself the song of the fat little-gods of the hearth:

I have my own home,

To do what I please with,

To do what I please with,

My den for me and my mate and my cubs,

My own!