Mrs. Anna Forge literally talked herself out. A few minutes after four o’clock she assented to being tucked in on the front-room sofa and demanded that Nathan should kiss her good night, for he was all she had, wasn’t he, and did he love his dear, dear mother and who had done any more for him than she had done? Then Nathan came back to bed, tossed his bathrobe on the footboard and crawled in beside me. “Cut out the hero stuff, Bill,” he snapped. “She’s simply a mental invalid and should be treated as such. Anything otherwise would be cruel.” There may be those who have felt out of patience with Nathan at certain periods in this intimate biography. They may have execrated him for an “easy mark.” They may have wanted to kick him, grab him by the shoulders and shake some spine into him. I confess I have felt so myself. But speaking for myself, away down deep in my heart of hearts, there’s something about a fellow who could do what Nathan did, the night before his baby was buried, that has my humble admiration. In the parlance of my newspaper office, I’ve got “to hand it to him.” He’s the sort of man the world needs more of. He’s far from being a weakling. He’s big! And so the Forge baby was buried. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VII FINE FEATHERS I One feature of that funeral I’ll be a long time forgetting was the unexpected appearance of old Caleb Gridley. Old Caleb had traveled much since he lost his Duchess and disposed of his tannery. He had made money and knew how to make more money, but for the first time in his life he had begun to enjoy a little of it himself. He spent several winters in Florida and a couple in California. He was absent much in New York and Boston. Between times he turned a quick dollar wherever opportunity presented,—in timber lands, wood pulp, short-term notes or sure things in the stock market. Nobody knew he was in town until the hour for the services. He came to the front door and rang the muffled bell. He was duly admitted and for the first time in my life, I truthfully believe, I saw the old tanner without his derby hat. He looked nude without it,—horribly nude. He held it, old style, by the brim in the crook of his left arm, at the same time proffering Mother Richards a little bouquet of pink rosebuds with his right. “Bought ’em myself,” he announced in a husky whisper, “fer the baby.” He said it like an apology. “Babies always seemed to me like pink rosebuds. Just gimme a seat next the door. I’ll be goin’ presently.” But the old man did not go presently. He sat through the entire services and when Nathan had helped his hysterical young wife away, it was Caleb who gave the undertaker what assistance was required.