"I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Ranny," Gertrude summarized. "I know all this has been a great shock to you. I’ll let you alone for a couple of days to turn things over. And think of what I’ve said. But then we must come to some definite decision. I’d give anything if this terrible thing had not happened now—but it can’t be helped, can it?" Now, that was very sweet and reasonable of Gertrude. And it is a thousand pities that she feels distressed. But it would have been ten thousand more if poor Laura had died just after we had been married instead of before. As it is, the problem before me is largely mine. Were we now married, Gertrude must have had to bear an undue share of it. Shall I ever win back to the old tranquillity and the peace that was mine? That was the first thought that came to me when I parted from Gertrude, a selfish thought as I immediately realized, in view of what is facing me. I can no longer think as I have thought and new feelings are struggling for birth within me, commensurate with the new responsibility. The world, as I walk through it, seems to present an aspect strangely different from what it did a week ago. It is so chill and alien and hollow! As I was reëntering my study I heard a crash in the dining room, which is now the children’s room, and when I glanced in upon them the girl Alicia was gathering up smithereens of glass and Ranny, the eldest boy, quietly announced, "It broke" in a manner that so obviously gave him away, all the others could not help laughing; and they laughed the louder when I joined them. Confused and angry, the boy ran out of the room. It is a world apart, the world of children, into which parents, I suppose, grow gradually. Not being the parent of these children, I fear I shall never penetrate it. Sooner or later they must be sent away, even as Gertrude maintains. And I must face that event forthwith. I was interrupted at this point by the irruption into the room of Jimmie, the youngest, inimitably, grotesquely shapeless in his nightgear, pattering toward me and taking refuge between my knees. He was being pursued by the girl Alicia who stood shyly and distressfully smiling in the doorway, as though all explanation were futile. "Well, old boy, what is it?" I demanded with mock severity, though in truth I was more afraid of him than he evidently was of me. "Iwantsayprayerstoyoulikeamummy," he uttered in one excited breath, as though it were one single word. "You want what?" "He says he wants to say his prayers to you, sir," spoke up the girl clearly. "I am sorry—he broke away. Shall I take him away, sir?" "Wanto say my prayers to you like to mummy," insisted Laura’s child, scrambling upon my knees. And with a pang of sadness that set all my senses aching I saw the picture of the past—poor Laura with her sweet, resigned face, living when she lived only in her children, listening to the prayers of this sprite with the silken sunshine in his hair.