occasionally from the history of the bruins to which Mistake patiently
recalled her by a clamor for, "More, Phoebe, more."

In a hurried response to one of his goads she failed to hear a step in
the hall for which she had been telling herself that she had not been
listening for two hours or more, and David Kildare stood in the doorway,
the firelight full on his face.

It was not a triumphant David with his judiciary honors full upon him and
gubernational, senatorial, ambassadorial and presidential astral shapes
manifesting themselves in dim perspective; it was just old whimsical
David, tender of smile and loving though bantering of eye, albeit a
somewhat pale and exhausted edition.

"Phoebe," he said with a low laugh, "nobody wants Dave--for anything!"

And it was then that the fire that had been lighted in the heart of
Phoebe in her night watch blazed up into her face as she held out her
arms to him! And in the twinkle of a fire-spark David found himself on
his knees, with Phoebe, the low chintz-covered chair and the two kiddies
clasped to his heart.

For a glorious moment he held them all close and his head rested on
Phoebe's shoulder just opposite that of Mistake, while Crimie squirmed
between them. Then he discovered that he was gazing under her chin into
the wide-open, slightly resentful orbs of Big Brother, who eyed him a
moment askance, then, feeling it time to assert himself, reached up and
landed a plainly proprietary and challenging kiss against the corner of
his lady's mouth.