"I don’t care," you whispered, defiantly, all to yourself, scowling out of the window, but "Tick-tock, tick-tock" went the clock on the mantel-shelf—"Tick-tock, tick-tock"—more loudly, more swiftly than you had ever heard it tick before. Still you were brave in the broad light of day, and if sun and breeze and bird-songs but held out long enough, Mother might forget. You flattened your nose against the pane. There was a dicky-bird hopping on the apple-boughs outside. You heard him twittering. If you were only a bird, now, instead of a little boy. Birds were so happy and free. Nobody ever made them stay in-doors on an afternoon made for play. If only a fairy godmother would come in a gold coach and turn you into a bird. Then you would fly away, miles and miles, and when they looked for you, at half-past six, you would be chirping in some cherry-tree. "Tick-tock, tick-tock—whir-r-r! One! Two! Three! Four! Five!" struck the clock on the mantel-shelf. The bright day was running away from you, leaving you far behind to be caught, at half-past six—caught and ... But Father might not come home to supper to-night! Once he did not. At the thought the sun lay warm upon your cheek, and you rapped on the pane bravely at the dicky-bird outside. The bird flew away. "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock." Swiftly the day passed. Terribly fell the black night, fastening its shadows on you and all the world. Grimly Mother passed you, without a look or word. She pulled down the window shades. One by one she lighted the lamps—the tall piano-lamp with the red globe, the little green lamp on the library-table, the hanging lamp in the dining-room. Already the supper-table was set. The clock struck six! You watched Mother out of the corners of your eyes. Had she forgotten? "Mother," you said, engagingly. "See me stand on one leg." "Mother does not care to look at naughty little boys." "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock." You were very little to punish. Besides, you were not feeling very well. It was not your tummy, nor your head, nor yet the pussy-scratch on your finger. It was a deeper pain. "Tick-tock, tick-tock." If you should die like the Jones boy’s little brother and be put in the cemetery on the hill, they would be sorry. "Tick-tock, tick-tock." Mother went to the window and peered out. "TICK-TOCK!" "Whir-r-r-" And the clock struck half-past six! Steps sounded upon the porch—Mother was going to the door—it opened! "Where’s Buster?" And Mother told! ... And somehow when Father spanked it always seemed as if he were meddling. He was an outsider all day. Why, then, did he concern himself so mightily at night? After supper Father would sit before the fire with you on one knee and Lizbeth on the other, while Mother sewed, till by-and-by, just when you were most comfy and the talk most charming, he would say: "Well, Father must go now." "Oh no, Father. Don’t go yet."