"My name is Rhoda," I said, in a burst of confidence. "I live here in this house. I was six years old yesterday."
"Were you!" he replied, evidently much impressed. "That's very old, very old."
He went on slowly down the block, but when he turned on his way back, he stopped again at the gate to discuss my age.
"Six, was it?" he questioned. "Well! Well! Perhaps you can tell me what time it is."
I shook my head, with a fascinated look at the gleaming star.
"I haven't a watch."
"But you don't need a watch," he answered. "See here."
He stooped down, painfully, grasping the fence for support, and picked the snowy seed-ball of a dandelion plant. Then he straightened up, slowly, and blew at the feathery toy.
"One, two, three, four, five! Five o'clock. Time for the old major to go in out of the damp."
Then he turned away from me, and went on up the street, his cane digging little holes in the path, and he himself forgetting all about the child whom he had left still perched on her gate. I had not entirely passed from his memory, however, for when he came to his own gate far in the distance, he took off his hat, and gallantly waved it to me before he went in out of the damp.