"Very well," said Harry. His face still retained a slightly sulky, disturbed expression. Ida, after a furtive glance at him, took up a sheet of the Sunday paper, and began swaying back and forth gracefully in her rocking-chair, as she read it. "How foolish all this sentiment about that murderer in the Tombs is," said she presently. "They are actually going to give him a Christmas-tree." "He is only a boy," said Harry absently. "I know that--but the idea!" Just then Maria passed the window, dragging little Evelyn in her white sledge. Ida rose with a motion of unusual quickness for her, but Harry stopped her as she was about to leave the room. "Don't go out, Ida," he said, with a peremptoriness which sat strangely upon him. Ida stared at him. "Why, why not?" she asked. "I wanted to take Evelyn out. You know Josephine is not here." "She is getting out all right with Maria's help; sit down, Ida," said Harry, still with that tone of command which was so foreign to him. Ida hesitated a second, then she sat down. She realized the grace and policy of yielding in a minor point, when she had a large one in view. Then, too, she was in reality rather vulnerable to a sudden attack, for a moment, although she was always as a rule sure of ultimate victory. She was at a loss, moreover, to comprehend Harry's manner, which was easily enough understood. He wished to be the first to ascertain Maria's sentiments with regard to going away to school. Without admitting it even to himself, he distrusted his wife's methods and entire frankness. Presently Maria entered, leading little Evelyn, who was unusually sturdy on her legs for her age. She walked quite steadily, with an occasional little hop and skip of exuberant childhood. She could talk a little, in disconnected sentences, with fascinating mistakes in the sounds of letters, but she preferred a gurgle of laughter when she was pleased, and a wail of woe when things went wrong. She was still in the limbos of primitivism. She was young with the babyhood of the world. To-day she danced up to her father with her little thrill of laughter, at once as meaningless and as full of meaning as the trill of a canary. She pursed up her little lips for a kiss, she flung frantic arms of adoration around his neck. She clung to him, when he lifted her, with all her little embracing limbs; she pressed her lovely, cool, rosy cheek against his, and laughed again. "Now go and kiss mamma," said Harry. But the baby resisted with a little, petulant murmur when he tried to set her down. She still clung to him. Harry whispered in her ear. "Go and kiss mamma, darling." But Evelyn shook her head emphatically against his face. Maria, almost as radiant in her youth as the child, stood behind her. She glanced uneasily at Ida. She held the white fur robes and wraps which she had brought in from the sledge.