dollar--my do-o-ol-lar! I want my--"

"What did I tell you, Mary Langshaw?" cried Clytie. She appealed to her
husband. "It's just the way I knew she'd act. Now I suppose you'll have
to give it to her. Mary, be still a moment--her head is so hot!"

"There, there!" said Langshaw soothingly. "She shall have her money this
minute."

"Of course she doesn't deserve it," said Clytie, but with a tone of
relief in her voice that seemed oddly greater than the occasion
warranted. Mary had wound herself round him passionately; her sobs were
dying away happily in long, deep breaths at intervals. Baby, being
undressed on her mother's lap, was laughing over some pieces of gilt
paper. In the heart of this domesticity it was as if the father and
mother were embarked with this little company on a full and swelling
river of love, of which they felt the exquisite soothing ripples.

Langshaw put his hand into his pocket.

"No, I can't give you the dollar this minute, little girl; father has
only a ten-dollar bill. I'll get it changed right after dinner. Isn't
dinner 'most ready, Clytie?"

"We'll go down just as soon as I get Baby in bed," said the mother
peacefully. "I don't see why George isn't here. Goodness! There he is
now," she added as a tremendous slam of the front door announced the
fact. The next moment a small boy, roguishly blue-eyed and yellow-haired
like Baby, with an extremely dirty face and a gray sweater half covered
with mud, hurled himself into the room, surreptitiously tickling one of