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it on weekdays. For the girls she usually sent gowns from Worth or Paquin, too elaborate to be of any use. Sue had a special interest in Sally’s presents this year, because for the first time she had interfered by giving a hint. She was wishing now that she hadn’t. Sedgwick might not be pleased.
    “Just because she’s so stinkin’ rich, Sally thinks she needn’t bother to write anything but cheques any more,” Sedgwick said rather huffily.
    It was nearly lunch-time, and when Sue rose to go Sedgwick said he would walk along with her. She stood waiting in the dingy hall while he turned to lock the door behind him. There was the soundof running feet on the stairs and a small coloured boy came into view at headlong speed. When he saw them he halted on the top step, holding to the newel-post and gasping for breath.
    “Oh, Marse Sedgwick—Miss Melicent say please you come home dis minute, suh!”
    “Something wrong at home?”
    “No, suh. Essept Miss Sally’s Chris’mas gif’ fo’ Marse Fitz done come.”
    “Well, what is it?”
    “A pinano, suh.”
    “ Piano! ”
    “Bigges’ ole pinano you all eveh did see!” His eyes rolled to include Susannah, his small arms flung wide to include all space. “Miss Melicent say no room in de parloh—no room in de po’ch—no room in de kerridge-house, even, foh any sech pinano. She say eff’n you all move out, bag an’ baggage, de pinano kin come in, no ways else.”
    Sue was shaking with laughter, and Sedgwick turned on her accusingly .
    “Well, it was you that brought up these presents from Sally,” he said. “Now come and see one!”
    “Fitz did want a piano, Sedgie.”
    “What’s the matter with the one he always had?”
    “It’s old. It belonged to your mother. He wants one of those new grand pianos.”
    “You don’t suppose he had the cheek to write and tell her so!”
    “No. I did.”
2
    T HERE had never been anyone in the family like Sedgwick’s son Fitz, and nobody knew what to do about him. Easy enough to say it was the Yankee blood in him, his mother being Cabot Murray’s sister. But while the son born to Cabot and Eden was oddly all Sprague, Fitz was neither Murray nor Sprague to any visible degree.
    The Sprague men were strong and gay and unruly, enterprising, virile, and irresistible (even as Eden said) to women. The Murrays were a tough, adventurous, passionate, intensely masculine breed of men with a flair for making money. And the Days were likely to be bookish, thoughtful, homekeeping, loving people. Fitz didn’t fit in anywhere. He was lazy and easygoing and idle, he never studied, he had never earned a penny, he had no ambition or aim in life, andhe liked it that way. He didn’t even fall in love, he said it was too much trouble. He had a strange sort of hobby, though. He collected songs.
    He had learned how to write music on blank score paper, he had a true ear and a pleasant untrained voice, and he spent hours among the darkies learning and setting down their songs. More than once he had mentioned that he would like to go to New Orleans and Memphis and Charleston just to see what songs he could find there. But travel cost money, and Fitz never had a cent of his own, and Sedgwick wouldn’t allow him to take money from his mother for any such nonsense as that. And so Fitz drifted, and sang his darky songs, and played any instrument he got hold of, and now and then he sulked a bit, and the girls were all disgusted with him.
    It was very worrying for Sedgwick, who had gone into his own father’s law office as a partner when the war ended, and by perpetual diligence and unlimited natural charm had contrived to make a living. Not that Fitz wasn’t charming. He was. But it was a charm which sat amiably on its spine with its feet up, so to speak. Fitz hadn’t an enemy in the world. Which just showed you, said his father, who had plenty and loved them all for adding zest to life.
    When they reached the Sprague house in England Street the