All the jewelry and silver were banished from the house long ago—they were sold for the benefit of the unemployed, and Mr. and Mrs. Bonstone wear a sporting sort of clothes, and a handsome couple they are. He has got quite brown, and she has a magnificent colour from being so much in the open air. She hasn’t any bric-a-brac to look after, nor fol-de-rols such as most women have, and even the servants are out a great deal, for the Bonstones install in their house every labour-saving device that is put on the market.
Cyria is a little beauty, and browner than ever, but not foreign-looking. Strangers always think she is the Bonstones’ own child. Six months ago, every one said her nose would be put out of joint but it wasn’t. It is straighter than ever.
I shall never forget that wonderful event. Good old Gringo, who has matured wonderfully since coming here, and who has also seemed to grow younger, for he has lost his rheumatism because he takes more exercise, came over to our house one drowsy summer day just gasping and panting with excitement. He is always going about here with his double shuffle gait. He has no health commissioner, and no policeman nor muzzle to worry him.
“What’s up?” I asked, blinking at him sleepily.
“We’re ahead of you,” the good old dog snorted—“you’ve got one baby only. We have three.”
“Not triplets,” I gasped.
The old dog gave me a look. “Of course not, though if it had been triplets, it would have been all right. We’ve got twins, Boy, but Cyria counts in. She’s our baby, too. Come on over—come on over and see them. We’ve all got rats in the garret over them. We’re crazy, crazy, crazy—just think—two babies.”
“Boys or girls?”
“One of each, of course,” he exclaimed, his square face alight with pride. “Come on, double quick.”