Marsden’s throne was a much pillowed chair, with broad arms and wheels. In this, he was rolled to his place at dinner. And dinner was the one time of congregation for the entire family. Josiah was almost invariably away at lunch--he was of that strange variety of men who prefer saloon fare with beer, to home cooking without it. Adelaide and Rhoda came home late from school. And Jonas preferred a box of sandwiches and cookies to be consumed away among his school-mates. In consequence, lunch as a rule was a scattered and unceremonious affair. The order of seating at dinner was inflexible. At the end of the oblong table, nearest the red portières, sat father, leaning close over his plate, his elbows flat against the white cloth. At the other end, in strategic proximity to the kitchen, was the straight, stiff figure of mother, who jumped up from time to time, disappeared, and then returned motionless, creaseless to her fixed posture. On her left was brought the chair of Marsden, and beside him sat Rhoda, a tall girl of fourteen, with a red mouth that curled and great black eyes tokening a somnolent fire and an acerb spirit. On his mother’s right hand was Quincy’s place. Next to him came Adelaide with her ingratiating manner and her busily agitating curls of a sun-shot brown. And on his father’s right, Jonas had place for his noisy, passionate consumption of all the food within his reach or not beyond his power. From mother came a word of grace. During this tense moment, when the soup lay steaming with irresistible flavor before them, the children were supposed to bow their heads and cast their thoughts on high. But Quincy’s devotion was not so rapt as to preclude observance of his father, who sat stock-still, face up, during the prayer, and trimmed his nails or grimaced his open deprecation. Inspired so, Jonas, while not daring not to bow his head, frequently gave vent to a giggle or to an inward gesture of disrespect. The two girls were in earnest. Marsden simply continued the smirk and sullen countenance that were his wont. And over little Quincy, reverently inclined, stole a strange sense of a thing amiss, of a rift in the sacrificial rhythm. “Amen,” was the signal for a reaction of noise. Father would cut a piece of bread-crust with a knife--a tooth splitting process. The girls would giggle; Jonas would empty his plate and then thrum the table with impatience. And Marsden would order his mother up to re-arrange his cushions. And while the first sharp edge of appetite wore down, came a space of muffled sounds, with scanty words. Mother would rise noiselessly with that miraculous manner which forbade even the creaking of her chair. Silently, she would gather in the soup plates and pass out into the kitchen. With regularity, this act was a sign for father. His heavy face would crease in smiles; his heavy hand would fetch down upon the table, upon his knee, upon the back of Jonas. “Well, lad--what’s new?”