“It’s our duty to warn him,” insisted Sikes. “It’s our duty by Ollie here and poor Mary to see that that boy has everything done for him that can be done in the way of—er—advice. The first thing we got to do, now that he’s old enough to understand—and, mind you, I claim he was old enough three or four years ago—is to make him control his temper. We got to bring him up so’s nobody on earth can truthfully say he’s got a mean and cruel and bloodthirsty nature. So when his trial comes up there’ll be plenty of witnesses to testify that he wouldn’t kill a fly, much less a man. But, by criminy, if he goes on kicking school-teachers and fighting like a bull dog, he’ll get such a reputation that he won’t have a ghost of a chance when it comes to testifying as regards to his character.” “Let’s go inside,” said Oliver’s father, wiping a little moisture from his brow. He led the way into the sitting-room where a lamp was burning above the center table—a brassy, ornate lamp suspended from the ceiling over a glossy mahogany table. The former was a Christmas present from Oliver to his wife and the latter was a present from Mary to her husband. All about the refurbished room were to be seen other gifts from Oliver to Mary, and Mary to Oliver—such as the comparatively new ingrain carpet; a larger and more generous base-burner stove with very bright nickel trimmings and a towering “dome”; a three-year old wall-paper in which poppies and humming-birds abounded; a “Morris” chair of the mission type; a hard, high-backed leather couch; two rocking-chairs, very comfortable but of peripatetic habits; a new eight-day clock; several framed “engravings” of a patriotic or sentimental character; a sectional book case containing sets of Dickens, Thackeray and Charles Lever (two dollars a month until paid for); chintz window curtains; and, last but not least, a wall-telephone. (Party J, ring 4.) These were but a few of the symbols of prosperity that marked the progress of the Baxters during the decade. The same mellowing influence of a well-directed opulence prevailed throughout the house. For one thing, a separate dining-room had been constructed off the sitting-room; the porch and the house had undergone repairs and painting; the gravel walk was replaced by one of soft red brick, and the fences were in order. The only thing about the place that had not improved with the times and the conditions was Oliver Baxter himself. He, alas, could not be re-upholstered; he could not be painted or repaired; moreover, he could not be stored away in the attic with all the other things belonging to another day. “It’s more cheerful in here,” explained Mr. Baxter, in a most cheerless voice. “Sit down. Had I better call Oliver in now—or wait a while?” His three visitors solemnly seated themselves. “Better wait a few minutes,” advised Mr. Link.