“Has he ever seen a pantomime?” she asked of my father one morning, looking at me the while with a whimsical screwing of her mouth. My heart leaped within me. My father raised his eyebrows: “What would your mother say, do you think?” he asked. My heart sank. “She thinks,” I replied, “that theatres are very wicked places.” It was the first time that any doubt as to the correctness of my mother's judgments had ever crossed my mind. Mrs. Teidelmann's smile strengthened my doubt. “Dear me,” she said, “I am afraid I must be very wicked. I have always regarded a pantomime as quite a moral entertainment. All the bad people go down so very straight to--well, to the fit and proper place for them. And we could promise to leave before the Clown stole the sausages, couldn't we, Paul?” My mother was called and came; and I could not help thinking how insignificant she looked with her pale face and plain dark frock, standing stiffly beside this shining lady in her rustling clothes. “You will let him come, Mrs. Kelver,” she pleaded in her soft caressing tones; “it's Dick Whittington, you know--such an excellent moral.” My mother had stood silent, clasping and unclasping her hands, a childish trick she had when troubled; and her lips were trembling. Important as the matter loomed before my own eyes, I wondered at her agitation. “I am very sorry,” said my mother, “it is very kind of you. But I would rather he did not go.” “Just this once,” persisted Mrs. Teidelmann. “It is holiday time.” A ray of sunlight fell into the room, lighting upon her coaxing face, making where my mother stood seem shadow. “I would rather he did not go,” repeated my mother, and her voice sounded harsh and grating. “When he is older others must judge for him, but for the present he must be guided by me--alone.” “I really don't think there could be any harm, Maggie,” urged my father. “Things have changed since we were young.” “That may be,” answered my mother, still in the same harsh voice; “it is long ago since then.” “I didn't intend it that way,” said my father with a short laugh. “I merely meant that I may be wrong,” answered my mother. “I seem so old among you all--so out of place. I have tried to change, but I cannot.” “We will say no more about it,” said Mrs. Teidelmann, sweetly. “I merely thought it would give him pleasure; and he has worked so hard this last term, his father tells me.” She laid her hand caressingly on my shoulder, drawing me a little closer to her; and it remained there. “It was very kind of you,” said my mother, “I would do anything to give him pleasure, anything--I could. He knows that. He understands.” My mother's hand, I knew, was seeking mine, but I was angry and would not see; and without another word she left the room.