Mr. Trimblerigg, according to custom, stood to ask a blessing. ‘For these, and all Thy other mercies,’ he said, and stopped short: ‘a mercy’ was what he could not feel it to be. Conversation was slow to begin. All the children reached out with healthy appetites for the bread and butter. Amy, conscientious child, still all eyes, seeking an unforbidden topic of conversation, surmounted the impediment by saying, ‘Ma, why didn’t we have pancakes to-day?’ ‘Hush, my dear!’ said Caroline, who had a feeling that the remark was too apposite; and indeed the barbed point had already gone home. So that--thought Mr. Trimblerigg--was how it appeared to a child’s eyes! He helped them all quickly from the dish before him; after that they looked at him less continuously, but not less admiringly. This eased the situation till Martin, the elder of the two boys, inquired concerning the food upon his plate. ‘Mummy, why don’t poached eggs have their yellow outside? Why don’t they, Mummy?’ Caroline told him not to talk, but to go on eating. Amy remedied matters in her own way, saying wisely, ‘They do come outside when they’re hatched; they turn into chickens then, don’t they, Mummy?’ Martin said, ‘No, they don’t!’ and looked corroboratively at his father. Benjie said: ‘Yes, they do: eggs do.’ Caroline said: ‘I told you not to talk.’ But children must talk, especially if there are three of them; and Martin being now silent, Benjie took up the running. Laying his head on one side, and stroking it with his spoon, ‘Mummy,’ he said, ‘if I was to catch fire, wouldn’t I get burned up? Wouldn’t I, Mummy?’ Then Mr. Trimblerigg could stand it no longer; he took up his plate, and left the room. As soon as he had closed the door he heard Benjie give a howl, and knew that Caroline, applying useless remedies, had slapped him. Presently, having sent the children to bed, she came in to comfort him. ‘They’ll get used to it presently,’ she assured him, ‘if it doesn’t go off. But I wish you’d see somebody.’ This time she avoided the word ‘doctor,’ because it irritated him. ‘I suppose they talked of me as soon as I’d gone?’ he said, ignoring the suggestion. ‘A little, naturally,’ she replied. ‘What did they say?’ ‘D’you think I’d better tell you,’ queried Caroline, wishful to spare him. ‘Yes, I may as well hear the worst.’ ‘Well,’ Martin said, ‘Is Father a holy man, Mother?’ Caroline had made her selection apparently: she uttered it without conviction; and to hear it so repeated gave Mr. Trimblerigg no joy. Truth from the mouths of babes and sucklings--even revealed truth sceptically reported--failed to comfort him.