And a boy's voice answered, as boys' voices have since Cain was a
child playing in the Garden of Eden, and as boys' voices will as long
as boys are:

"Aw, ma, I ain't a bit sleepy. We just begun a new game, an' I'm
leader. Can't we just stay out a couple of minutes more?"

"Well, five minutes," agreed the voice. "But don't let me call you
again."

Emma McChesney leaned back on the rustic bench and clasped her strong,
white hands behind her head, and stared straight ahead into the soft
darkness. And if it had been light you could have seen that the bitter
lines showing faintly about her mouth were outweighed by the sweet and
gracious light which was glowing in her eyes.

"Fred-dee!" came the voice of command again. "May-belle! This minute,
now!"

One by one the flying little figures under the arc-light melted away
in the direction of the commanding voice and home and bed. And Emma
McChesney forgot all about fresh young kids and featherloom petticoats
and discounts and bills of lading and sample-cases and grouchy buyers.
After all, it had been her protecting maternal instinct which had been
aroused by the boy at supper, although she had not known it then. She
did not know it now, for that matter. She was busy remembering just
such evenings in her own life--summer evenings, filled with the high,
shrill laughter of children at play. She too, had stood in the
doorway, making a funnel of her hands, so that her clear call through