The shrill cries penetrated at last even the room beyond the large drawing-room where the people were gathered, and aroused the father, who had been called on a matter of business into the study. He stepped briskly into the room,--a handsome man of forty, with black curling hair and crisp black beard cut to a point. His cheek-bones were high, and the skin of his upper face was ruddy, as from much living in the open air. “What is the matter with the boy?” he demanded abruptly. “Just a case of ‘I don’t want to,’” observed Dr. Vessinger. “When we are young and feel that way, we let the world know it all of a sudden.” “And when we are grown,” joined in the large, blonde woman, smiling at the doctor, “we say nothing, but do as we like.” “If we can,” added a young woman, with nervous anxiety to be in the conversation. Mrs. Simmons had disappeared through the French window that opened to the terrace. Her husband followed, and the others lounged, after bandying words on the occasion. They could see below them on the slope of the lawn the young mother, the nurse, the child. “Why, Dora! What is the matter?” they could hear her say. “Oscar, be still. Be quiet and come to me.” She must have spoken reprovingly to the nurse, for next came in injured Irish tones: “What have _I_ done, mum? The boy was pounding the breath of life out of the Vance child. I could not keep his fists from his face. What have I done? Indeed!” “There, don’t answer any more. Take Oscar to the nursery, and wash his face, and bring him down. I want these ladies and gentlemen to see him.” Little Oscar, who had much the same coloring and shape of head as his father, listened quietly while his mother spoke to the nurse. When she had finished and Dora tugged at his hand, he shouted: “I won’t! Do you hear? I won’t! Don’t you touch me! I say, don’t you touch me!” He enunciated with great distinctness, with mature deliberation. When the nurse tried to take his arm, she received a well-aimed blow in the pit of her stomach, delivered with all the vigor of a lusty five years. “Oscar! Why, my little man!” the mother exclaimed helplessly. Mr. Simmons, who had been watching the group, vaulted over the terrace wall and strode rapidly down the slope. Little Oscar, at the apparition of his long-legged father, turned and fled around the wing of the house. His nurse followed grumblingly. “Bravo!” exclaimed Dr. Vessinger, satirically. “Young Hercules needs the chastening hand of his sire.” “We shall have to call _you_ in, I guess, Vessinger, if the kid’s temper gets worse. It’s too much for his mother now, and he is only afraid of me because I am home so little he doesn’t exactly realize I am his father. When he does, he will be boxing _me_.” “Yes,” sighed Mrs. Simmons, red with annoyance. “It has come all of a sudden, too. He was so gentle as a baby, so sweet. I think it must be the nurse, Dora.”