“So would I, Mother. And I’m going to go right through, just like you did when you were a little girl. I’m over to ‘the sinfulness o’ that mistake wherein a man fell’ and I’ll be at ‘the misery o’ that mistake’ next week.” His father shouted. “Never mind, dear,” said the mother, with difficulty controlling her face. “Your father forgets he was a little boy himself once. Indeed, I don’t believe he could say the question himself.” “What’ll you bet?” said the father. “I learned the thing from cover to cover when I was a kid—got ten bob for saying it before the whole school in a contest.” “Make him say it, Mother,” cried the boy, springing to his feet. “Make him say ‘the sinfulness o’ that mistake’ and ‘the misery o’ that mistake’ too.” Violently protesting, but all in vain, the father was made to repeat not only “the sinfulness of that estate whereinto man fell” but “the misery of that estate” as well, which he did only after some considerable prompting by the delighted boy and his mother. “So you’re going through with it, are you, laddie?” said his father, when he had emerged, somewhat chastened in spirit, from his ordeal. “Right through to the very end, Daddy, same as Mother did.” “And me too. Don’t forget your father’s early triumphs. And a lot of good it has done me, eh, Mother?” “You never know, dear, what good it has done you.” “Or what harm. Luckily I never tried to understand it, like this young philosopher.” “What’s a philofisser, Mother?” “A person who is very fond of knowing things, dear.” “All right, I’m one, Mother. And I’m going to know everything in the Cakism——” “Catechism, dear.” “Yes, the Catism—all about God and what He does and what He doesn’t do too, Mother. ’Specially the things He doesn’t do. I don’t like those things. Who does arrange the bad things, Mother?” “Here, youngster, you’ll have us all frogging in deep water in another jiffy and shouting for help,” said the father. “That’ll do. Take your mother up the hill for a walk. It is getting cool enough for a walk, eh, what?” “I believe I am a little too tired,” said the mother, wistfully looking up the hill. “Oh, go on, Mother. Take it easy. A little walk will do you good.” “Come on, Mother. I’ll take care of you,” said the boy stoutly. “Come along then, laddie.” The man stood looking after them as they toiled uphill among the pines, the mother pausing now and again, ostensibly to pick a red lily or to admire some newly opening vista through the aisled forest. “My God!” he said, through his teeth. “She is getting weaker. She is! She is! We must get her out of this to some one who knows. Must raise the money somehow.” He swore a deep oath, and, passing into the bungalow, sat down to drink his heartache numb in Scotch whiskey. CHAPTER III