Two more spoonfuls went down by an heroic effort. Then Keith burst into
tears, and his father's face grew still darker as he asked scornfully:

"Are you a boy or a girl?"

Keith did not care at that moment. In fact, he thought that if girls had
a right to cry, he would rather be one.

His mother was trying to coax him with kind words, and he actually
raised the filled spoon to his lips once more, but the sensation within
him was such that he let it drop again with a splash. That was the
crowning offence, and the feeding process began at once. His father took
him by the neck with one hand and administered the spoon with the other.
It was done firmly and perhaps harshly, but in such a manner that the
boy was not hurt.

Keith cried and coughed and swallowed--and in the midst of that ordeal
he noticed the wonderful softness of his father's hands. But his heart
was full of bitter resentment, and he wished that he could grow up
on the spot.

What the end might have been is hard to tell, had not a slight
commotion been heard from the kitchen at that juncture.

"There is mother now," said the father, letting go his hold on Keith's
neck. "Wipe your eyes and try to act like a boy. Some day we'll put you
into skirts."

Keith did not care. He knew now that he would not have to eat the rest
of the soup. That was the one thing in the world that seemed to matter