Webster asked his question with a sinking of the heart; what if his mother's first knock had awakened him? He might never have finished his dream, might never have dreamed at all. How different the morning might have been, how different the world--if his mother had awakened him before his dream! He received his cup from her and smiled at her: "I was dreaming," he said, and he smiled also at the safety of his vision. Elinor, sitting opposite him, had said nothing. She had finished her breakfast before he had come in and plainly lingered till he should enter. Since his entrance she had sat restless in her chair, toying with her fork or her napkin, and humming significantly to herself. She had this habit. "You must not sing at the table, Elinor," her mother had once said. "I am _not_ singing," Elinor had replied, "I am humming to myself, and _no_ one is supposed to listen." Meantime this morning, her quickly shifting eyes would sweep his face questioningly; she must have been waiting for some sign as to what had been the effect of the Thomas Jefferson bluejay the night before and of the repeated attack on his window shutters. Often when out of humour with her he had declined to notice her at table; now once, when he caught her searching glance, he smiled. Dubiously, half with disbelief and half with amazement, she looked steadily back at him for an instant; then she slipped confusedly from her seat and was gone. Webster laughed within himself: "what will she be up to next?" he thought. It was quiet now at the table: his father had gone back to his paper, his mother was eating the last of her breakfast fruit, and perhaps, thinking that out in the country things were getting ripe. After an interval Webster broke the silence: he was white with emotion. "Father," he said quietly, "I have decided what I'd like to do." Webster's father dropped his paper: Webster's mother's eyes were on him. The years had waited for this moment, the future depended upon it. "If you and mother do not need me for anything else just yet, I'd like to work my way through the University. But if there's something different you'd rather I'd do, or if you both want me in any other way, I am here." "My son," exclaimed his father, rudely with the back of his hand brushing away a tear that rolled down his cheek--a tear perhaps started by something in his son's words that brought back his own hard boyhood, "your father is here to work for you as long as he is alive and able. Your mother and I are glad--!" but he, got no further: his eyes had filled and his voice choked him. Webster's mother stood beside him, her hand on his head, her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. * * * * *