Toddlelums rolled off the window-seat, picked himself up, put his hands in the pockets of his knickers, and finally placed himself with his back to the fire. "I was only trying to catch one little fly, mammie." "Ah! but, my pet, it is rather cruel to kill the poor flies." "Oh! I wasn't going to kill it, only catch it and make a tiny cage between my two hands"--putting the palms of his hands together--"then I would let it fly away again, right away." The mother sat there watching her boy and thinking how like his father he was growing. Presently he edged up to her and leant against her knee, and then she put her arm round him, and bent her head so that her cheek touched his brown curls. "Mother's baby," she said softly; "mother's little Toddlelums," and there was a quaver in her voice. Toddlelums did not notice it, though, for he turned to her with a merry twinkle in his great brown eyes and twined his arms lovingly round her neck. "Let's play, mammie; let's play bears," he cried, trying to drag her out of her chair with fearless hands which were certain of no repulse. She stood up, laughing. How tall and graceful she was, and how young! Soft golden hair, brown eyes like Toddlelums', only with a sad, sad look in them even when she smiled. Toddlelums thought his mother was beautiful, and Toddlelums was right. A romp was in full swing when a man's step sounded in the hall. In a flash the boy with his rosy face and rumpled hair made a bolt for the door, as a deep voice called, "Toddlelums!" "It's dad, it's dad!" he shouted, battling with the knob of the door. Then two little feet scampered down the hall, and Toddlelums was raised up high into the air and smothered with kisses. The mother was cognisant of all this, yet she did not attempt to follow. She merely gave little touches to the disordered hair, took up her work, and seated herself once again. Where was the smile now? Where had the tender look gone? Vanished at the sound of a man's voice--and that man her husband! "Mammie and me were just playing bears," said the son, as he came in perched on his father's shoulder. "Wasn't it fun, mammie?" looking at his mother with a joyous smile. "Yes, dear," she answered, without looking up; and her husband, glancing at her, noticed that she bit her under lip and a flush suddenly dyed her cheeks. They had been married seven years, and during that time never one word of love had passed the lips of either. It had been a _mariage de convenance_, his and her fathers' estates joined, and, as she told him afterwards, she had seen nobody she liked better. It had seemed easy enough at first even without love, but gradually--neither knew exactly how--a coldness sprang up, they drifted apart. There was no actual quarrel, only a few hard, bitter words on both sides, but the barrier grew and grew until there seemed little hope of its being broken down.