“Mahala, dear,” he said gently, “Mama and I are very much perturbed—very much, indeed! In the first place, neither of us approves of the expensive gift the Morelands saw fit to send for this supposedly happy occasion.” “Nor do I,” said Mahala promptly. “Send it back. I don’t want it. I can see very nicely from the chandelier.” “I wish,” said Mahlon, a slight petulance tincturing his voice, “that you would learn not to break in on me. Have you lived with me fourteen years and not yet learned how I detest being broken in on? The gift before you is quite as inappropriate and far from inexpensive.” Mahlon saw the wave of stillness that swept over Mahala. He sensed the fact that every nerve and muscle in her was tightening. “I cannot see that, Papa,” she said very deliberately. “Canaries are not expensive. Why isn’t a singing bird a delightful gift to give any one, especially a girl who loves music and colour as I do?” Mahlon decided to dispense with subtleties and preliminaries. He brushed them aside. He leaned forward. “Mahala,” he said, in the deepest bass that he could instill into his tones and his most authoritative manner, “where did that bird come from?” Mahala blessed her stars that the question had not been: “Who gave you that bird?” As it was, her alibi was perfect. She could look her father straightly in the eye and answer in her best adaptation of his tones and manner: “I have not the least idea. There are several women in town who raise birds for sale. If you think it is not beneath your dignity, you might make it your business to ask each of them to-morrow. Possibly they would tell you to whom they sold a bird to-day.” That was precisely what Mahlon had intended doing, or having his wife do, but that clever provision “beneath your dignity” cut him to the core, even as his daughter intended that it should. She knew when she injected that neat little phrase that she had forever stopped her father and her mother from opening their mouths concerning the origin of the bird, because with each of them their dignity was more important than their souls—and more tangible in their own conception. To Mahlon it was a body blow. He ran his perturbed fingers through his perplexed hair and stared at the innocent young face before him. Had he been any other man, he would have said that he would “be damned;” being himself, and a truthful man, he was absolutely confident that he should not be damned, while it certainly was “beneath his dignity” to lie on any subject. So he compromised by using milder methods. “It passes my comprehension,” he said, and his bewilderment became tangible, shrouded him like a blanket. Mahala instantly agreed with him.