CHAPTER FOURTH

THEY LOOK AT A FLAT.

The house occupied by Mr. Clark the optician was old-fashioned and roomy; built in the days when ground was cheap and space need not be economized. It belonged to his nephew, whose guardian he was, and some day, when the hard times were over, it was likely to be a valuable piece of property. At present it could be rented for little or nothing as a residence, and for this reason he had decided to live in it himself, taking the first floor and turning the second and third into flats.

The dignified old mansion had the air of having stepped back in disdain from the hurry and bustle of the street, preserving in its seclusion between the tall buildings on either side something of the leisurely atmosphere of other days.

The optician himself was quite in keeping with the house. He loved old things and old ways; his business methods were those of thirty years ago, and so perhaps were most of his patrons. There were still many persons who could remember the time when he had been joint proprietor of the largest jewellery store in the city, but times had changed. In some way he had been crowded out and half forgotten, much as the old house had been.

He kept the place in the best of order; the bit of lawn that lay between the house and the street was as thrifty and green as care could make it, and was a pleasant surprise when one came upon it unexpectedly, an oasis in the desert of brick pavement.

Frances' bright eyes had noticed, in passing, the mammoth pair of spectacles swinging above the veranda, and so when she found Mrs. Gray, an old lady who had a room near theirs in the hotel, lamenting over her broken glasses, she had known where to take them.

The clock struck eleven as the Morrisons entered the shop next morning. The sun shone cheerily in on the Spectacle Man, who was waiting upon a customer; and Peterkin, who had selected the brightest spot to be found, was making his toilet in an absorbed manner.

Mr. Clark bowed and smiled and asked them to be seated for a few minutes; but Frances, all impatience, could not think of keeping still, and, seeing the cat, was presently down on the floor beside him.

"Do you know, puss," she whispered, stroking him gently, "that maybe we are coming here to live?"

The news evidently tickled him, so much so that he sneezed and shook his head vigorously; then, as if fearing to be misunderstood, he began to purr softly.

"Come, Frances, Mr. Clark is ready to show us the rooms," her father called; and it is to be hoped Peterkin was not hurt by the sudden manner in which he was dropped.

"This is a nice old place, Jack," whispered Mrs. Morrison as they followed Frances and the Spectacle Man up the stairs. The former was explaining with great animation how they had seen the advertisement in the paper and she had recognized it. "You see, father is going away and can't take us, and mother and I think we'd like to come here, perhaps," she said.

"Well, I had a presentiment I was going to find a good tenant, but I did not think it would be you," was his reply.

The rooms proved to be large and light; the paper and paint were fresh and clean, and what furniture there was was simple and new.

"I believe it is the very place for us," Mrs. Morrison said, her housewifely eyes taking in all the possibilities of cosey comfort. "It will be a new and charming experience; and as for the Spectacle Man, he is simply delightful!"

After showing them through, Mr. Clark had left them, and they could hear him singing as he went,

"The bridge is broke, and I have to mend it."

"Yes, this will be a nice sitting room, with its windows where,—to quote Frances—'The little sun comes peeping in at morn!'" said Mr. Morrison.

"And this bedchamber is lovely, and the little kitchen—"

"We can make candy sometimes, can't we, mother?" Frances interrupted, dancing wildly about.

"O Jack! if only you were going to be here;" Mrs. Morrison turned suddenly to the sunny window.

"You know I'll not go one step unless you are willing, Kate," her husband said, coming to her side.

"Don't be a goose, dear, of course you are going." Her face was hidden against his shoulder for a moment, then she turned brightly to Frances, who was anxiously inquiring where she was to sleep.

"And mother," she exclaimed, "such a pretty young lady passed through the hall just now."

"That is something we must ask about,—what other persons are in the house," said her father.

Frances was not a little surprised and indignant when, after carrying on what seemed to her a long conversation with Mr. Clark upon various unimportant subjects, her father left with nothing more definite than that they were pleased with the rooms and would let him know their decision next day.

"Aren't we going to take them? I thought it was all settled; I don't understand," she said when they were on the street.

"Now, Wink, let me ask you something. Don't you honestly think that two persons who have lived more than thirty years ought to have a little better judgment about some things than one who has lived only ten?"

"But I'll be eleven in February, and—well, father, I suppose so, but grown people do take so long to think!"

"It is an interesting old house, and do you know, I think that is a Gilbert Stuart over the mantel in the back room," remarked Mr. Morrison.

"Why, father, it is a George Washington! I'm sure it is," cried Frances, and couldn't understand why they laughed, till her mother explained that they were probably both right, as Gilbert Stuart had painted a number of portraits of Washington.

It spoke well for the Spectacle Man's flat that they looked no farther that day, but there were many things to be taken into consideration that Frances did not dream of. After she was snugly tucked in bed that night, her father and mother sat long talking over their plans.

"I do not like the idea of leaving you here without looking up any of my old friends," said Mr. Morrison.

"But that is just what we want to avoid. I don't care to meet your friends till you are with me. We shall be perfectly comfortable, and shall enjoy the experience, and Mr. Clark, I know, will be kindness itself," replied his wife.

"You are as infatuated as Frances; you are just two little girls with a new playhouse. But if anything should happen—I don't know what—it might be awkward."

"I suppose I know what you mean, Jack; but we could not be suspected of any motive in coming here, a certain person being abroad, and nothing is going to happen. Who is likely to find us out? Morrison is a sufficiently common name, and the Spectacle Man's apartment house is, to say the least, not conspicuous. You forget we are not so important to other people as we are to you. The months will soon pass, and we shall be together again in some delightful place, and you will write your novel and become famous, and then—"

Her husband lifted to his lips the hand he held, just as he used to do when he was her gallant young lover, a dozen years ago. "For your sake I wish I might. If only I had half your cheerful courage," he said, adding, "I hope Frances will grow up to be exactly like you."

"She is exactly like you, Jack, I am happy to say."

As they sat in silence the song of the Spectacle Man kept repeating itself in Mrs. Morrison's mind, and it suggested to her the broken bridge which separated Jack from so much that might have been his. Would it ever be mended?