The "cool, calm serenity" of his determination he found it difficult to realize; and the delights and responsibilities of fatherhood began to pall upon him. It looked to be so long a way ahead, even to teeth, talking, and walking, to say nothing of the charm and companionship of a young lady daughter! Children were all very well, of course,--very desirable. But did they never do anything but cry? Couldn't they be taught that nights were for sleep, and that other people in the house had some rights besides themselves? And must they _always_ choose four o'clock in the morning for a fit of the colic? Helen said it was colic. For his part, he believed it was nothing more or less than temper--plain, right-down temper! And so it went. Another winter passed, and spring came. Matters were no better, but rather worse. A series of incompetent maids had been adding considerably to the expense--and little to the comfort--of the household. Helen, as a mistress, was not a success. She understood neither her own duties nor those of the maid--which resulted in short periods of poor service and frequent changes. July came with its stifling heat, and Dorothy Elizabeth, now twenty months old, showed a daily increasing disapproval of life in general and of her own existence in particular. Helen, worn and worried, and half sick from care and loss of sleep, grew day by day more fretful, more difficult to get along with. Burke, also half sick from loss of sleep, and consumed with a fierce, inward rebellion against everything and everybody, including himself, was no less difficult to get along with. Of course this state of affairs could not continue forever. The tension had to snap sometime. And it snapped--over a bottle of ink in a baby's hand. It happened on Bridget's "afternoon out," when Helen was alone with the baby. Dorothy Elizabeth, propped up in her high-chair beside the dining-room table, where her mother was writing a letter, reached covetous hands toward the fascinating little fat black bottle. The next instant a wild shout of glee and an inky tide surging from an upside-down bottle, held high above a golden head, told that the quest had been successful. Things happened then very fast. There were a dismayed cry from Helen, half a-dozen angry spats on a tiny hand, a series of shrieks from Dorothy Elizabeth, and a rapidly spreading inky pall over baby, dress, table, rug, and Helen's new frock. At that moment Burke appeared in the door. With wrathful eyes he swept the scene before him, losing not one detail of scolding woman, shrieking child, dinnerless table, and inky chaos. Then he strode into the room. "Well, by George!" he snapped. "Nice restful place for a tired man to come to, isn't it? This is your idea of a happy home, I suppose!" The overwrought wife and mother, with every nerve tingling, turned sharply.