"The dear old _Matilda_!" she said,--almost whispered,--and her eyes grew softer. "Happy times, weren't they? And coming after what I'd left--" I shook my head. "Tell me, Will." "I've wondered how much was my not understanding," I went on, "and how much I had to kick about. I suppose if I was older, I'd be like Sax--keep my troubles to myself--but I haven't learned how, yet. Still, I don't want to spoil your morning." She frowned a little at Saxton's name, not an ill-tempered, but a thoughtful frown, as a new idea struck her. She put it away from her, and turned. "That you should come to me, Will, is a high compliment. I know you're not the kind to give your woes to the world. If--" she smiled at me, "if you won't think it heartless of me, I'll say I'll enjoy hearing 'em." "I understand," I answered; "just as, in a way, I'll enjoy telling them. Well, here we go." So I put the facts to her as fair and calm as I could, patterning after Saxton's method. I hadn't his nerve; gradually heat swept into my discourse. I forgot where I was and who I was talking to, as the old wrongs boiled up. When I finished I remembered, and sat back. Mary was also still. I rolled a cigarette and played for airiness. "Of course," I said, "it's all in a lifetime." She put her hand on mine. "Don't," she said, "don't." I shut up. The minutes slid by heavy-footed. At last she spoke. "For sheer inhumanity," she said, "I think that is without an equal." "Oh, no!" I said. "I reckon the story's common enough wherever people let an idea ride 'em bareback. Father was a good man, with bad notions, that's all." I purposely let my eye fall on the little revolutionists, standing in a melancholy line--nothing to do, nothing to think, all balloon-juice to them. As I hoped, her eyes followed mine. She straightened, seeing the point. Color came into her face. "Children!" she called sharply in Spanish, "why do you not run and play?" The line fell into embarrassment. They hooked the dirt with their feet and looked at each other. "Alfonso!" said Mary, "start some game!" The biggest boy took off his hat and smiled his grave, polite smile. "_Si_, Señorita!" he replied; "but what is 'game'?" "I've been so busy with--more important things that I haven't thought of amusements," Mary explained to me, aside. There was apology in the explanation; I heard with glad ears. "Is it possible they know no games?" "Why, I suppose they do, of a kind," I answered; "but it seems to me the chief lack of these kids is real play; they're all little old men and women; the kid spring is knocked out of 'em; they've lived in war and slaughter so much they don't believe in anything else." "Well," said she promptly, "that's a poor state of affairs." "The worst," said I. "What kind of nation can you grow out of children who have no fun? Their God will look like a first cousin of our devil. I _did_ manage to rake some sport out of my time, or else I'd gone to the bad entirely, I reckon."