impossible for them to be idle and comfortable over their own meal.
If he did not actually ask them to fetch butter or water, or if he
could find no reasonable excuse for fault-finding, he would surely
introduce some dangerous topic; lure them into admissions, stand
ready to pursue any clue. He did not like to see young girls care-
free and contented; time enough for that later on! And as years
robbed him of actual dignities, and as Monroe's estimate of him fell
lower and lower, he turned upon his daughters the authority, the
carping and controlling that might otherwise have been spent upon
respectful employees and underlings. He found some relief for a
chafed and baffled spirit in the knowledge that Sally and Martie
were helpless, were bound to obey, and could easily be made angry
and unhappy.

Lydia, her father's favourite, came in with a loaded tray, just as
Len, slipping down the back stairs, was being stealthily regaled by
his mother on a late meal in the kitchen. Len had no particular
desire for his father's undiluted company.

"Good morning, Pa!" Lydia said, with a kiss for his cool forehead.
"Your paper's right there by the fire; there's quite a fog, and it
got wet."

Hands locked, she settled herself opposite him, and revolved in her
mind the terms in which she might lay before him the younger girls'
hopes. It was part of Lydia's concientiousness not to fail them now,
even though she secretly disapproved of the whole thing.

"Pa," she began bravely, "you wouldn't mind the girls having some of
their friends in some evening, would you? I thought perhaps some