"But, Mother, if the bad little boys say it, why do the good fathers say it—hm?" Mother explained that, too. Little boys should mind their mothers, she said. It was easy enough not to say the word when you talked softly, but when you talked loudest it was hard to remember what Mother said. For when you talked softly, somehow, you always remembered Mother, and when you talked loudly it was Father you remembered best. The sun rose high and warm. It was a long time after breakfast. Fragrance came from the kitchen to where you sat in the library, all dressed-up, looking at picture-books and waiting for dinner, and wondering if there would be pie. Father was all dressed-up, too, and while he read silently, you and Lizbeth felt his cheeks softly with your finger-tips. Where the prickers had been at breakfast-time it was as smooth as velvet now. Father’s collar was as white as snow. In place of his jacket he wore his long, black Sunday coat, and in his shoes you could almost see your face. "Father’s beautifulest on Sunday," Lizbeth said. "So am I," you said, proudly, looking down your blouse and trousers to the shine of your Sunday shoes. "So are you, too," you added kindly to Lizbeth, who was all in white and curls. Then you drew a little chair beside Father’s and sat, quiet and very straight, with your legs crossed carelessly like his and an open book like his in your lap. And when Father changed his legs, you changed your legs, too. Lizbeth looked at you two awhile awesomely. Then she brought her little red chair and sat beside you with the Aladdin book on her lap, but she did not cross her legs. And so you sat there, all three, clean and dressed-up and beautiful, by the bay-window, while the sun lay warm and golden on the library rug, and sweeter and sweeter grew the kitchen smells. Then dinner came, and the last of it was best because it was sweetest, and if Company were not there you cried: "It’s going to be pie to-day, isn’t it, Mother?" But Mother would only smile mysteriously while the roast was carried away. Then Lizbeth guessed. "It’s pudding," she said. "No, pie," you cried again, "’cause yesterday was pudding." "Now, Father, you guess," said Lizbeth. "I guess?" "Yes, Father." And at that Father would knit his brows and put one finger to one side of his nose, so that he could think the harder, and by-and-by he would say: "I know. I’ll bet it’s custard." "Oh _no_, Father," you broke in, for you liked pie best, and even to admit the possibility of custard, aloud, might make it come true. "Then it’s lemon jelly with cream," said Father, trying another finger to his nose and pondering deeply. "Oh, you only have one guess," cried you and Lizbeth together, and Father, cornered, stuck to the jelly and cream. "Oh, dear," Lizbeth said, "I don’t see what good it does to brush off the crumbs in the middle of dinner."