"That you, Elder? Well, now! That was a nice funeral, wasn't it? He couldn't ask for no nicer, not if he was the President!" He spoke with obvious effort; his eyes, meeting the chaplain's keen glance, dropped. "What's the matter?" repeated Hadley. Pippin sat down again, the other beside him. There was a pause; then-- "I've lost my grip!" he said heavily. Hadley waited. The father in him, the son in Pippin, must meet in silence, if they were to meet at all. Presently the words came in a rush. "I've lost my grip; things has got away from me. I don't know what I done--" his eyes, dark with pain and trouble, roved hither and thither, as if seeking enlightenment--"but I done something I hadn't ought to. She has no use for me any more!" Still Hadley waited. The voice rose into a cry. "I thought," Pippin mourned, "I thought when she come to see her Pa, and--and knew how he sent me, and I looked for her--looked for her--I thought she'd feel different, but she doesn't, sir; no, she doesn't. She never give me one look to-day, just passed me by same as if I was a chair, or like that. And--just now--I see her sittin' all alone there, and I thought--I tried--but 'twas no good. I don't cut no ice with her, that's all there is to it. I don't know what I'll do, Elder; I don't--know--what I'll do! Nor that ain't all! I've lost my folks!" "What do you mean, Pippin?" "My folks: my movie folks, that I made up like I told you: Pa and Ma, and the rest. They've gone back on me, Elder." "Tell me!" The kind hand on his shoulder, Pippin poured out his tale; how since he first saw Mary things had begun to change, little by little, so gradually that it was a long time before he realized it. Then it came over him, suddenly, that all was not right, that the beloved figures were less clear, less sharply defined than they had been. "They'll come when I speak to 'em, yes, and they'll answer, but it's like I had to make up what I want 'em to say, 'stead of them wantin' to say it themselves. I know--Elder, I expect you'll think I'm wantin' in my mind, but--I _know_ they wa'n't real folks, but yet they was real to me. They acted so live, and so good and lovin' and all--why, Ma--why--what'll I do without Ma?" He broke off and stared into vacancy. "I see her now, but she's different: more like a shadow, and when I look at her, she changes into--you know what she changes into, Elder?" "Yes, Pippin, I think I do!" "She changes into Mary!" Pippin sprang up, and paced the barn with eager steps, throwing up his chin at every turn. "And Pa similar. And the little gal--but I never see her so plain, some ways, I never--what I mean--she always appeared like she was some person else, and now I know it was little May, little May Blossom!" He choked. The child, dropping his beans, came and pulled at him with eager hands. "Daddi Pippin, what a matter, Daddi?"