"Why, Bertha!" he said. "My dear! This is unexpected."
He paused and gave her one of his gently curious looks. She had thrown her cloak off as she came near him, and something in her appearance attracted his attention.
"My dear," he said, slowly, "you look to-night as you did years ago. I am reminded of the time when Philip first came to us. I wonder why?"
There was a low seat near his side, and she came and took it.
"It is the dress," she said. "I was looking over some things I had laid aside, and found it. I put it on for old acquaintance' sake. I have never worn it since then. Perhaps I hoped it would make me feel like a girl again."
Her tone was very quiet, her whole manner was quiet; the dress was simplicity itself. A little lace kerchief was knotted about her throat.
"That is a very feminine idea," remarked the professor, seeming to give it careful attention. "Peculiarly feminine, I should say. And—does it, my dear?"
"Not quite," she answered. "A little. When I first put it on and stood before the glass I forgot a good many things for a few moments, and then, suddenly, I heard the children's voices in the nursery, and Richard came in, and Bertha Herrick was gone. You know I was Bertha Herrick when I wore this—Bertha Herrick, thinking of her first party."
"Yes, my dear," he responded, "I—I remember."
There were a few moments of silence, in which he looked abstractedly thoughtful, but presently he bestirred himself.