“I didn’t think you’d need your overshoes this morning, Lester. I didn’t get them out. But if you think you would better....” “Oh, no, no, dear, I won’t. I hate them anyhow.” His breakfast, perfectly cooked and served, steamed on the white tablecloth. What a wonder of competence Eva was! Only it was a pity she let the children get on her nerves so. Lester never doubted that his wife loved her children with all the passion of her fiery heart, but there were times when it occurred to him that she did not like them very well--not for long at a time, anyhow. But, like everything else, that was probably his fault, because she had all the drudgery of the care of them, because she never had a rest from them, because he had not been able to make money enough. Everything came back to that. He gulped down his hot, clear coffee and tore at his well-made toast, thinking that he was just about a dead loss anyway you looked at it. Not only had he no money to give his children, but no health either. That was another reason why Eva was so worn and took life so hard. He had given her sickly children--all but Stephen. And Stephen had other ways of wearing on his mother. Poor little Henry! How sick he had been last night! It was damnable that the poor kid should have inherited from his good-for-nothing father the curse of a weak digestion, which made life not worth living--that and many other things. He snatched his watch, relentless inquisitor, from the table beside his plate, thrust it into his pocket and jumped up to put on his overcoat and hat. “Here are your gloves,” said his wife, holding them out to him. “There was a hole in the finger. I’ve just mended it.” “Oh, that’s awfully good of you, Evie,” said Lester, kissing her cheek and feeling another ton of never-to-be-redeemed indebtedness flung on his shoulders. He felt them bend weakly under it like a candle in an over-heated room. “Don’t forget your soda-mints,” said Evangeline. Gee! it wasn’t likely he would forget them, with that hideous demon of dull discomfort getting to work the instant he swallowed food. Henry and Helen, half-dressed, came hurrying down the stairs to see him before he disappeared for the day. His heart yearned over them, their impressionable, delicate faces, their shadowed eyes, the shrinking carriage of their slim little bodies. “Good-by, Father,” they said, lifting their sweet children’s lips to his. The poor kids! What business had he to pass on the curse of existence to other human beings, too sensitive and frail to find it anything but a doom. He tried to say, “Good-by there, young ones,” as he kissed them, but the words could not pass the knot in his throat.