guess. Goodnight, Sweetheart."


She was late in getting to sleep and late in waking.

When he finally sat down to the hurriedly spread breakfast-table, Mr.
Porne, long coffeeless, found it a bit difficult to keep his temper.
Isabel was a little stiff, bringing in dishes and cups, and paying no
attention to the sounds of wailing from above.

"Well if you won't I will!" burst forth the father at last, and ran
upstairs, returning presently with a fine boy of some eleven months, who
ceased to bawl in these familiar arms, and contented himself, for the
moment, with a teaspoon.

"Aren't you going to feed him?" asked Mr. Porne, with forced patience.

"It isn't time yet," she announced wearily. "He has to have his bath
first."

"Well," with a patience evidently forced farther, "isn't it time to feed
me?"

"I'm very sorry," she said. "The oatmeal is burned again. You'll have
to eat cornflakes. And--the cream is sour--the ice didn't come--or at
least, perhaps I was out when it came--and then I forgot it. . . . . I
had to go to the employment agency in the morning! . . . . I'm sorry I'm
so--so incompetent."

"So am I," he commented drily. "Are there any crackers for instance?