had forgotten their woes, nor do I think they would have remembered
them again that night had they not found on their return home that
they were locked out.

At this even the too amiable Bessie was angry--very angry--unjustly,
as it turned out afterwards.

"They weren't to blame, after all," she explained to Thaddeus, when
he came home the next night. "I spoke to them about it, and they
all thought we'd spend the night with your mother and father at the
Oxford."

"They're a thoughtful lot," said Thaddeus.

And so time passed. The "treasures" did as they pleased; the
dubious auburn-haired Norah continued her aggravating efficiency.
Bessie's days were spent in anticipation of an interview of an
unpleasant nature with Jane or Ellen "to-morrow." Thaddeus's former
smile grew less perpetual--that is, it was always visible when
Bessie was before him, but when Bessie was elsewhere, so also was
the token of Thaddeus's amiability. He chafed under the tyranny,
but it never occurred to him but once that it would be well for him
to interview Ellen and Jane; and then, summoning them fiercely, he
addressed them mildly, ended the audience with a smile, and felt
himself beneath their sway more than ever.

Then something happened. A day came and went, and the morrow
thereof found Thaddeus dethroned from even his nominal position of
head of the house. There was a young Thaddeus, an eight-pound
Thaddeus, a round, red-cheeked, bald-headed Thaddeus that looked