He was playing with the kittens. One was patting and cuffing his bare toe, which had poked through his stocking. He pushed and teased the little scamp with his toe till it rushed at him, clinging, tickling, biting till he gave little bubbles of laughter, quite forgetful of us. Then the kitten was tired, and ran off. Lettie shook her skirts, and directly the two playful mites rushed upon it, darting round her, rolling head over heels, and swinging from the soft cloth. Suddenly becoming aware that they felt tired, the young things trotted away and cuddled together by the fender, where in an instant they were asleep. Almost as suddenly, Sam sank into drowsiness. “He’d better go to bed,” said the father. “Put him in my bed,” said George. “David would wonder what had happened.” “Will you go to bed, Sam?” asked Emily, holding out her arms to him, and immediately startling him by the terrible gentleness of her persuasion. He retreated behind Lettie. “Come along,” said the latter, and she quickly took him and undressed him. Then she picked him up, and his bare legs hung down in front of her. His head drooped drowsily on to her shoulder, against her neck. She put down her face to touch the loose riot of his ruddy hair. She stood so, quiet, still and wistful, for a few moments; perhaps she was vaguely aware that the attitude was beautiful for her, and irresistibly appealing to George, who loved, above all in her, her delicate dignity of tenderness. Emily waited with the lighted candle for her some moments. When she came down there was a softness about her. “Now,” said I to myself, “if George asks her again he is wise.” “He is asleep,” she said quietly. “I’m thinking we might as well let him stop while we’re here, should we, George?” said the father. “Eh?” “We’ll keep him here while we _are_ here——” “Oh—the lad! I should. Yes—he’d be better here than up yonder.” “Ah, yes—ever so much. It is good of you,” said Lettie. “Oh, he’ll make no difference,” said the father. “Not a bit,” added George. “What about his mother!” asked Lettie. “I’ll call and tell her in the morning,” said George. “Yes,” she said, “call and tell her.” Then she put on her things to go. He also put on his cap. “Are you coming a little way, Emily?” I asked. She ran, laughing, with bright eyes as we went out into the darkness. We waited for them at the wood gate. We all lingered, not knowing what to say. Lettie said finally: “Well—it’s no good—the grass is wet—Good-night—Good-night, Emily.” “Good-night,” he said, with regret and hesitation, and a trifle of impatience in his voice and his manner. He lingered still a moment; she hesitated—then she struck off sharply. “He has not asked her, the idiot!” I said to myself. “Really,” she said bitterly, when we were going up the garden path, “You think rather quiet folks have a lot in them, but it’s only stupidity—they are mostly fools.” CHAPTER V AN ARROW FROM THE IMPATIENT GOD