“It’s supper time, Jonas.... Come down.... And as to you, my lad,--” Quincy held his breath with his galled anguish,--“you’d better stay up here--and cool off.” Quincy had felt the smile in this voice also. He felt the two, their eyes meeting and smiling together. Then the door slammed and they were gone. Smiles, smiles--what a curse smiles seemed to him! There was so much laughter in the house. But when they looked at him, it became a smile. Never, never did they laugh with him. Surely, then, he too must learn to smile. Rigid as ever, he turned on his back. And through his scarce-started tears, he looked up at the blurred electric lamp. And then, as he lay there, his mouth trembled and he learned to smile. It was an evil moment. Never had there been so deep a silence. With outstretched body, it was to Quincy as if he had been swept beyond the bed. He seemed afloat, astride two worlds, strangely apart from the one in which he had been incontinently dropped. And then a thought of what had happened--a whispered thought like a dim memory--brushed him back into the actual living. With his face hot in fever, his mind seething in visions that burst out and vanished ere they had been caught, all of his life came to him in a clear, ghostly light. He saw the household, below stairs, joyously seated at the gleaming table, eating good things. He felt hungry. He wished to go out and steal some food. He wished to crash through the floor and fall, dead and mangled, upon that board of mocking plenty. But through it all, he managed still to smile. And then, he looked up. His mother had come in, holding a tray. “You were very naughty, Quincy,” she said in a voice that went up and down, “but I have brought you some dinner.” Quincy was still smiling. He reached out his arm for a pillow and flung it at his mother. It fell short, doing no harm. Sarah placed the tray precipitately on a chair and rushed to the bed. “Darling, darling!” she cried, “why are you like this? Tell mother, won’t you? What is it? Why? Why?” She kissed his face. She pressed his hands. She clamped his ears so that they hurt deliciously. And Quincy lay silent, happy; his smile lost at last in the sweet tears. Then, something came over his mother. She stopped. “I must go now,” she said hurriedly. “Father was angry even at this. He said for Bridget to bring it up. He’ll be mad, dearest, if I stay.” She leaned over and kissed her son, once more. He lay now, stiffly again and sternly. Then the door closed behind her.