his presence.

"You must sit on my bed," Helena insisted.

"No, mine!" Gregory cried; and, as he settled by his daughter, "For
every minute you're there, father, you must sit here. Guess what I have
with me." Lee Randon had no idea, and Gregory produced a willow switch.
"That's for anybody who isn't good."

There was a wriggle down under the blanket, and Lee leaned forward;
"Are those your feet?" he demanded; "do you go that far down, are you
that tall?"

"Gracious, that's nothing," Helena cut in; "just see where I go." He
discovered that her active toes were almost under the end bar of the
bed. The covers were moulded by her firm body. In a few years, he
thought with a constricted throat, Helena would be grown up, flung into
the complex troubles of maturity. However, he knew, life wouldn't
greatly upset her--she had a calmness more stolid than Fanny's together
with his own sharpened sensibilities: it was probable that she would
marry soon.

Gregory was different; while Helena, in small ways, was unamenable, he
was as good as the gold stars he continually got for admirable conduct.
He had a deliberate, careful mind and, already, a sense of
responsibilities. He spoke slowly, giving the impression that the
selection of words was a heavy business; where Helena's speech came in
careless rushes. Gregory, too, Lee Randon told himself, would not be at
a loss later. The two children actually demanded very little from him
now beyond the love they took for granted and its obvious return. But,