Before him lay countless amorphous rows of children, with stern sprinklings of teachers. He began. It was as if his voice went on of itself--uncontrolled, aloof from him, so that he heard it from afar. He had studied his rôle too well. It left no fear of his forgetting it. And in the relief, back stole the thought of Jonas, the possible catastrophe if he returned, while Quincy stood there droning out his duty. If his duty was to be done, at least it could be gone through quickly. The words flowed. He hurried them, as if pursuing from behind. It was a way of getting back. And then, suddenly, his words stopped. He realized that there were no others. He sat down. He received little praise for his performance. His teacher, a stout, florid creature, came up to him showing her teeth, as she did always when she was irritated. She found fault with his rendition. But what bothered Quincy was the thought that his hurrying had not brought nearer his return. It had been useless. He did not hate the woman only because of his indifference. About him was a bustle of holiday excitement. Children laughed and ran about. Teachers relaxed and Quincy noticed that when they became smirkingly human they were still more disagreeable than when they had been teachers. It was as if they had taken off their clothes. Greetings of “Merry Christmas” interspersed the general murmur of voices and light feet. It was all like a great, dim wave on the edge of Quincy’s consciousness. At last, however, the wave broke; the voices scattered; the eddies lessened. And then, Quincy came home. Jonas was not there. So he ate his lunch, tossed between gladness at not having missed him and hollow perturbation at the deep-shadowed future. For in this state, the coming home of Jonas was Quincy’s future. His mother had said to Rhoda: “Dear, if you have nothing to do, will you take the children for a short walk in the Park?” Rhoda had consented. The remainder of the meal was torture to Quincy. But out of his new anguish was born a device. For he was resolved not to go out, that afternoon. As soon as the company had gotten up from the table, Quincy went bravely up to Rhoda who stood alone in a corner. Rhoda was seventeen--a remote, resplendent creature. She was dark and tall and very cold and very occupied in her own mysterious affairs. Quincy looked up at her with admiration, but with distance. He felt that she was beautiful. He felt that he would not have minded had she kissed him--which she never did; that he would have been glad, had she noticed him--which occurred scarce more often. Now, however, he was inspired. So he went up to her unhesitant, reached for her wrists, clasped them, and spoke. “Sister.” “Well?” “Please, sister--make Mama not make you take me out, to-day.” “What’s wrong?” She looked down, interested. “Please, sister--I want to be here when Jonas is coming.” He looked up piteously. And Rhoda laughed. “All right. I don’t care, I’m sure. I’ll see to it.”