The old tale of Sir Lancelot and the wicked Sir Modred, the wizard and the dragon, held them enthralled for fifteen minutes. Theodore was a slow and dramatic reader and though the book was a simplified version for children it was not too simplified and he skipped none of the long words, but enunciated each clearly, sometimes pausing to make the older ones say what the word meant and speak it several times. Ted already had a mature vocabulary for his age and the children had heard very little baby talk from their parents, though an occasional visitor was apt to gush and coo, to the boys’ thinly veiled disgust. Archie was already asleep when the story was finished and Kermit’s eyes were glazing though he fought to keep them open. When Alice followed her father out she observed in a suave tone of superiority that reminded Theodore vaguely of his own mother. “After all, Father, we have to remember that they are only children. Archie is practically an infant yet.” “We’ll remember that, Alice, and be very charitable in our judgments,” he answered with the same gravity. “Now you scamper before Mother scolds both of us.” Suddenly she flung her arms around him. “Oh, Father, I don’t want to go back to New York. I hate it! Why can’t I go to Albany with you?” “That has been all decided and explained to you. Your mother’s family are very fond of you and do a great deal for you, and you must be grateful. Not many young girls are so lucky.” “There are so many rules,” she sighed. “Life is too bewildering and mixed up for a young girl.” “What a young girl needs at this stage of her growth is sleep.” He gave her a fatherly smack. “Get along with you now, and be content for a few years to leave the problems to older people who love you and want the best for you.” She was halfway down the stairs and she left him very reluctantly and backed up the rest of the flight, calling “Good night, Father.” When she was safely in her room he went back to the library fire where Edith was sitting, on her knee a piece of embroidery stretched on a hoop. “All should now be silent.” He dropped gratefully into a deep chair. “From the way my own eyelids feel I’ll be ready to join them in unconsciousness very soon. This has been a long day.” “And tomorrow will be another,” she said, “but this has been a good day. For me at least. When none of the children are ailing with anything,” spoke the mother, “I am content. I hope and pray we don’t have too many visitors to usurp your time tomorrow, as no one else can sort and pack most of your personal papers.”