"Your father hasn’t got a store any more." "He has, too," you replied. "He hasn’t, either, ’cause my pa says he hasn’t." "I don’t care what your pa says. My father has, too, got a store." "He hasn’t." "He has." "He hasn’t, either." "He has, teether." "I say he hasn’t." "And I say he has," you screamed, and threw the watering-can straight at the Jones boy. It struck the fence and the water splashed all over him so that he retreated to the road. There in a rage he hurled stones at you. "Your—father—hasn’t—got—any— store—any—more—old—Patchy-pants— old—Patchy-pants—old—" And then suddenly the Jones boy fled, and when you looked around there was Father standing behind you by the geraniums. "Never mind what the Jones boy says," he told you, and he was not angry with you for throwing the watering-can. The little green spout of it was broken when you picked it up, but Father said he would buy you a new one. "To-morrow, Father?" "No, not to-morrow—some day." You and Lizbeth, tumbling down-stairs to breakfast, found Father sitting before the fire. "Father!" you cried, astonished, for it was not Sunday, and though you ran to him he did not hear you till you pounced upon him in his chair. "Oh, Father," you said, joyfully, "are you going to stay home and play with us all day?" "_Fa_-ther!" cried Lizbeth. "Will you play house with us?" "Oh no, Father. Play _store_ with us," you cried. "Don’t bother Father," Mother said, but Father just held you both in his arms and would not let you go. "No—let them stay," he said, and Mother slipped away. "Mother’s got an awful cold," said Lizbeth. "Her eyes—" "So has Father; only Father’s cold is in his voice," you said. You scarcely waited to eat your breakfast before you were back again to Father by the fire, telling him of the beautiful games just three could play. But while you were telling him the door-bell rang, and there were two men with books under their arms, come to see Father. They stayed with him all day long—you could hear them muttering in the library—and all day you looked wistfully at the closed door, lingering there lest Father should come out to play and find you gone. He did not come out till dinner-time. After dinner he walked in the garden alone. He held a cigar in his clinched teeth. "Why don’t you smoke the cigar, Father?" He did not hear you. He just walked up and down, up and down, with his eyes on the ground and his hands thrust hard into the pockets of his coat. Mother watched him for a moment through the window. Then with her own hands she built a fire in the grate, for the night was chill. Before it she drew an easy-chair, and put Father’s smoking-jacket on the back of it and set his slippers to warm against the fender. On a reading-table near by she laid the little blue china ash-tray you had given Father for Christmas, and beside it a box of matches ready for his hand. Then she called him in.