Arty stopped crying, and steadied his quivering infant mouth till it expressed his invincible determination. "I'll g-g-g-go for Mommy. But I w-w-w-won't go for Daddy. I doesh'n't 'ike him." "Hsh-sh--poor Daddy--he's so tired. Run away to the nursery, darlings, all of you." "I can't think why on earth you have them down here at this time," said their father, as the door slammed behind the last retreating child. "My dear, you said yourself it's the only time you have for seeing them. I'm sure you don't get much of them." "I get a great deal too much sometimes." "If we only had a big place for them to run about in--" "What's the use of talking about things we haven't got, and never shall have? Is supper ready?" She raised herself heavily from her sofa, and went to see, trailing an old shawl after her. Arthur, by way of being useful, put his foot upon the shawl as it went by. After supper he felt decidedly better, and was inclined to talk. "I met Davidson this morning in the city. He said his wife hadn't seen you for an age. Why don't you go and look her up?" Aggie was silent. "You can't expect her to be always running after you." "I can't run after her, I assure you. I haven't the strength." "You used," he said, reproachfully, "to be strong enough." Aggie's mouth twisted into a blanched, unhappy smile--a smile born of wisdom and of patience and of pain. "My dear, you don't know what it is to have had six children." "Oh, don't I? I know enough not to want any more of them." "Well--then--" said Aggie. But Arthur's eyes evaded her imploring and pathetic gaze. He turned the subject back to Mrs. Davidson--a clumsy shift. "Anyhow, it doesn't take much strength to call on Mrs. Davidson, does it?" "It's no good. I can't think of anything to say to her." "Oh, come, she isn't difficult to get on with." "No, but I am. I don't know why it is I always feel so stupid now." "That," said Arthur, "is because you haven't kept it up." "I haven't had the time," she wailed. "Time? Oh, rubbish, you should make time. It doesn't do to let things go like that. Think of the children." "It's because I'm always thinking of them." They rose from their poor repast. (Coffee and mutton-chops had vanished from the board, and another period of cocoa had set in.) He picked up her shawl, that had dropped again, and placed it about her shoulders, and they dragged themselves mournfully back into their sitting-room. She took up her place on the sofa. He dropped into the arm-chair, where he sat motionless, looking dully at the fire. His wife watched him with her faded, tender eyes. "Arthur," she said, suddenly, "it's the first meeting of the Society to-night. Did you forget?" They had never admitted, to themselves or to each other, that they had given it up. "Yes," said Arthur, peevishly, "of course I forgot. How on earth did you expect me to remember?" "I think you ought to go, dear, sometimes. You never went all last winter." "I know."