Hiram, wondering at his own weakness, awkwardly took the paw so uncannily like a mummied hand. "What did you do this for, Adelaide?" said he, in a tone of mild remonstrance where he had intended to be firm. "He's so fascinating, I couldn't resist. He's so wonderfully human--" "That's it," said her father; "so--so--" "Loathsomely human," interjected Arthur. "Loathsome," said the father. "That impression soon wears off," assured Adelaide, "and he's just like a human being as company. I'd be bored to death if I didn't have him. He gives me an occupation." At this the cloud settled on Ranger's face again--a cloud of sadness. An occupation! Simeon hid his face in Adelaide's shoulder and began to whimper. She patted him softly. "How can you be so cruel?" she reproached her father. "He has feelings almost like a human being." Ranger winced. Had the daughter not been so busy consoling her unhappy pet, the father's expression might have suggested to her that there was, not distant from her, a being who had feelings, not almost, but quite human, and who might afford an occupation for an occupation-hunting young woman which might make love and care for a monkey superfluous. But he said nothing. He noted that the monkey's ribbon exactly matched the embroidery on Adelaide's dress. "If he were a dog or a cat, you wouldn't mind," she went on. True enough! Clearly, he was unreasonable with her. "Do you want me to send him away?" "I'll get used to him, I reckon," replied Hiram, adding, with a faint gleam of sarcasm, "I've got used to a great many things these last few years." They went silently into the house, Adelaide and Arthur feeling that their father had quite unreasonably put a damper upon their spirits--a feeling which he himself had. He felt that he was right, and he was puzzled to find himself, even in his own mind, in the wrong. "He's hopelessly old-fashioned!" murmured Arthur to his sister. "Yes, but _such_ a dear," murmured Adelaide. "No wonder _you_ say that!" was his retort. "You wind him round your finger." In the sitting room--the "back parlor"--Mrs. Ranger descended upon them from the direction of the kitchen. Ellen was dressed for work; her old gingham, for all its neatness, was in as sharp contrast to her daughter's garb of the lady of leisure as were Hiram's mill clothes to his son's "London latest." "It's almost half-past twelve," she said. "Dinner's been ready more than half an hour. Mary's furious, and it's hard enough to keep servants in this town since the canning factories started."