Margaret went in, too, to kiss her father; a tired-looking, gray
haired man close to fifty, who had taken her chair by the fire. Mrs.
Paget was anxious to be assured that his shoulders and shoes were not
damp.

"But your hands are icy, Daddy," said she, as she sat down behind a
smoking tureen at the head of the table. "Come, have your nice hot
soup, dear. Pass that to Dad, Becky, and light the other gas. What
sort of a day?"

"A hard day," said Mr. Paget, heavily. "Here, one of you girls put
Baby into his chair. Let go, Bob,--I'm too tired to-night for monkey
shines!" He sat down stiffly. "Where's Bruce? Can't that boy remember
what time we have dinner?"

"Bruce is going to have supper with Richie Williams, Dad," said Mrs.
Paget, serenely. "They'll get out their blue prints afterwards and
have a good evening's work. Fill the glasses before you sit down, Ju.
Come, Ted--put that back on the mantel.--Come, Becky! Tell Daddy about
what happened to-day, Mark--"

They all drew up their chairs. Robert, recently graduated from a high
chair, was propped upon "The Officers of the Civil War," and "The
Household Book of Verse." Julie tied on his bib, and kissed the back
of his fat little neck, before she slipped into her own seat. The
mother sat between Ted and Duncan, for reasons that immediately became
obvious. Margaret sat by her father, and attended to his needs,
telling him all about the day, and laying her pretty slim hand over
his as it rested beside his plate. The chops and cream gravy, as well