He came and sat there before the fire, saying nothing, but looking into the flames—looking, looking, till your mind ran back to a Sunday afternoon in summer by the river-side. "I know what you are thinking, Father." Slowly he turned his head to you, so that you knew he was listening though he did not speak. "You’re thinking how nice it would be, Father, if you were a little boy like me." He made no answer. Mother came and sat on one of the arms of his chair, her cheek against his hair. Lizbeth undressed her dolls for the night, crooning a lullaby. One by one you dropped your marbles into their little box. Then you rose and sat like Mother on an arm of Father’s chair. For a while you dreamed there, drowsy, in the glow. "Mother," you said, softly. [Illustration: "’MOTHER, YOU SAID, SOFTLY’"] "Yes," she whispered back to you. "Mother, isn’t it _fine_?" you said. "Fine, dearie?" "Yes, Mother, everything ... ’specially—" "Yes, sweetheart?" "—’specially just having Father." Father gave a little jump; seized you; crushed you in his arms, stars shining in his brimming eyes. "Little chap—little chap," he cried, but could get no further, till by-and-by— "Mother," he said—and his voice was clear and strong—"Mother, with a little chap like that and two girls like you and Lizbeth—" His voice caught, but he shook it free again. "—_any_ man could begin—all over again—and _win_," he said. *Mother* A," you said. "And what’s that?" "B." "And that?" You sat on Mother’s lap. The wolf-wind howled at the door, and you shuddered, cuddling down in Mother’s arms and the glow. The wilder the wolf-wind howled, the softer was the lamp-light, the redder were the apples on the table, the warmer was the fire. On your knees lay the picture-book with its sad, sad little tale. Mother read it to you—she had read it fifty times before—her face grave, her voice low and tragic, while you listened with bated breath: "Who killed Cock Robin? ’I,’ said the Sparrow, ’With my bow and arrow— I killed Cock Robin.’" [Illustration: "THE PICTURE-BOOK"] It was the first murder you had ever heard about. You saw it all, the hideous spectacle—a beautiful, warm, red breast pierced by that fatal dart—a poor, soft little birdie, dead, by an assassin’s hand. A lump rose in your throat. A tear rose in your eye—two tears, three tears. They rolled down your cheek. They dropped, hot and sad, on the fish with his little dish, on the owl with his spade and trowel, on the rook with his little book. "P-poor Cock R-robin!" "There, there, dear. Don’t cry." "But, M-mother—the Sparrow—he k-killed him." Alas, yes! The Sparrow had killed him, for the book said so, but had you heard? "N-no, w-what?"