"Dicky is six years old," she said. "I married his Father a year and a half ago. He was killed in an accident a year ago. It was all so sudden,--the marriage,--the accident,--everything--!" She began to cry a little. It made her clothes look sorrowfuller and sorrowfuller and her face more and more surprised. Once again she curled up her white pond-lily hands at our Uncle Peter. It was as though she thought that our Uncle Peter could help her perhaps with some of her surprises. "I--I didn't know his Father very long," she cried. "I never knew his Mother at all!----It's--It's pretty bewildering," she said, "to be left all alone--for life--with a perfectly, strange little boy--who isn't any relation at all!--All his funny little suits to worry about--and his mumps and his measles--and--and whether he ought to play marbles 'for keeps'--and shall I send him to college or not? And suppose he turns out a burglar or something dreadful like that?--And how in the world am I going to tackle his first love affair? Or his choice of a profession?--Merciful Heavens!--Perhaps he'll want to fly!" "Why--you're just like a Hen," said our Uncle Peter. The Lady didn't like to be called a Hen. It ruffled her all up. Our Uncle Peter had to talk about Base Ball to soothe her. The Lady didn't know anything about Base Ball but it seemed to soothe her considerably to hear about it. When our Uncle Peter was all through soothing her she looked up as pleasant as pleasant could be. "WHY?" she said. "Why--what?" said our Uncle Peter. He seemed a little perplexed. "Why--am I like a Hen?" said the Lady. "O--h," said our Uncle Peter. He acted very much relieved. "O--h," he said. "I was afraid it was something you were going to ask me about Base Ball. But a Hen----?" He looked with smiles at the Lady. "Oh but a Hen--?--Why even a Hen, my dear Madam," he smiled, "a real professional true-enough hen doesn't take any too easily to the actual chick itself until she's served a certain sit-tightly, go-lightly, egg-shell sort of apprenticeship as it were to the IDEA.--Thrust a bunch of chicks under her before she's served this apprenticeship and----" I jumped up and down and clapped my hands. I just couldn't help it. "Oh, I know what happens!" I cried. "She sits too heavy! And squashes 'em perfectly flat!--There was a hen," I cried. "Her name was Lizzie! She was a good hen! But childless! The Grocer gave us some day-old chicks to put under her! But when we went out to the nest the next morning to see 'em--they couldn't have been flatter if they'd been pressed in the Bible!--My Brother Carol cried,--I cried,--my Mother----" "I don't care at all who cried," said the Lady. It was true. She didn't. All she cared was to look at our Uncle Peter. The look was a stern look. "And are you trying to imply, Mr.--Mr.--?" "Merredith," said our Uncle Peter. "Percival Merredith.--'Uncle Peter' for short."