Rankin pushed his shivering, fidgeting visitor into a chair and, laying a big hand on his shoulder, said with a faint smile: "Maybe I can divert your mind for an instant with a story--another one of my great-aunt's, only it's an old one this time; you've probably heard it--about the old man who said to his wife on his death-bed, 'I've tried to be a good husband to you, dear. It's been hard on my teeth sometimes, but I've always eaten the crusts and let you have the soft bread.' You remember what the wife's answer was?" "No," said the doctor frowning. "It's the epitome of tragedy. She said, 'Oh, my dear, and I like crusts so!'" The doctor stared into the fire. "Do you mean--there's work for them?" "I mean work for them," repeated the younger man. The word echoed in a long silence. "It's the most precious possession we have," said Rankin finally. "We ought to share more evenly." The doctor rose to go. "Generally I forget that we're of different generations," he said with apparent irrelevance, "but there are times when I feel it keenly." "Why now especially?" Rankin wondered. "I've stated a doctrine that is yours, too." "No; you wouldn't see, of course. Yes; it's my doctrine--in theory. I believe it, as people believe in Christianity. I should be equally loath to see anybody doubt it, or practice it. Ah, I'm a fool! Besides, I was born in Kentucky. And I'm sixty-seven years old." He shut the door behind him with emphasis. He was on his way to Bellevue to see Lydia. Knowing her tender heart, he had expected to see her drowned in grief over her father's death. Her dry-eyed quiet made him uneasy. That morning, he found her holding Ariadne on her knees and telling her in a self-possessed, low tone, which did not tremble, some stories of "when grandfather was a little boy." "I don't want her to grow up without knowing something of my father," she explained to the doctor. Her godfather laid a hand on her arm. "Don't keep the tears back so, Lydia," he implored. She gave him as great a shock of surprise as her mother had done. "If I could cry," she said quietly, "it would be because I feel so little sorrow. I do not miss my father at all--or hardly at all." The doctor caught at his chair and stared. "How should I?" she went on drearily. "I almost never saw him. I never spoke to him about anything that really mattered. I never let him know me--or anything I really felt." "What are you talking about?" cried the doctor. "You always lived at home."