There were times when her bright eyes watched him above the top of her Ancient History or Physical Geography and then turned to the background, where, hollow chested, hollow eyed, beaten and defeated, Jason sat rumpling his hair and plunging into his books. And sometimes, when he lifted his eyes and she met his glance, he gave her the feeling that he was a hungry dog that knew he had the strength to capture the bone, but from bitter experience, also knew that it was not worth while to make the fight, because superior power would intervene and take it away from him. On the day of Mahala’s birthday party, in the midst of the bustle of cleaning, merely from force of habit, that which was clean, of decorating that which was already over-decorated, a dray stopped before the Spellman residence to deliver an expensive piano lamp, the attached card bearing birthday greetings from Martin Moreland, Jr., to Miss Mahala Spellman. When Mahlon Spellman stepped into his parlour that night, the first thing that attracted his attention was this lamp. He went over and examined it critically; then he turned a face white with anger toward Elizabeth, who stood hesitant in the doorway. He was horrified at the extravagance of such a gift between children. “Why did you allow this thing to be left here?” he demanded. “Why did you not return it immediately? You know that it is not suitable that a gift of such extravagance should be permitted between mere children. It must go back!” “Yes, that is what I think,” said Elizabeth. “Of course, that is what you think,” said Mr. Spellman. “That comes from being a sensible woman. There is nothing else you could think. I strenuously object to having Martin Moreland furnish my house for me. A piano lamp! A piano lamp! Why didn’t _he_ get the piano and let _me_ get the lamp?” He leaned toward Elizabeth and thrust out his right hand as if he expected her to make an answer that would materialize so that he could pick it up and kick it through the door on the toe of his boot. “Have you any idea,” he shouted, “what that thing cost?” “Yes,” said Elizabeth quietly. “I heard Mahala say that she would like a piano lamp, so I looked at this same one yesterday, but I thought the price was out of all reason. They were asking thirty-five dollars for it.” Mahlon arose to the height of the price. He paced the room, talking and gesticulating. “I won’t have it!” he cried. “I won’t countenance it! Why, in order to keep even, the next time Junior has a birthday, I’ll be expected to help furnish Martin Moreland’s house. I am not in the furniture business.” Mahlon arranged his cuffs and took a firm stand on widely spread feet; rocking thereon, he glared at his wife.