"If you look over the dining-room fireplace you can see how fine his
father was--"

So the child stared up the stately panelled wall at the gloomy old
portrait of Judge Trenton with his much curled wig and black satin
gown and the stiff scroll of vellum with fat be-ribboned seals
attached and asked naively,

"If your father was a judge-man why aren't we judge-mens?" Grandy
laughed his short, hard laugh.

"Oh, because we've gone straight to the dogs--and very small bow-wows
at that--"

It was about this time that Octavia began to teach Felice to play
chess. The child hated it. It must have taken a sort of magnificent
patience to teach her. For a long time no one save Mademoiselle D'Ormy
had known what a struggle it meant for that gay little invalid to make
herself lovely for that afternoon hour over the chess board. Yet, when
the Major entered he would always find his daughter smiling from her
heap of gay rose-colored cushions, her thin hair curled prettily under
her lace cap and her hand extended for his courteous kiss. They were
almost shyly formal with each other, those two, while Mademoiselle
D'Ormy screwed the tilt table into place and brought the ebony box of
carved chess men. It was leaning forward to move the men that took so
much strength. Octavia was too proud to admit how weak she was
growing. So she coaxed her small daughter,

"It will be a little stupid at first, Cherie, but we will try to make