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‘I don’t think I know it.’

‘He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just a little to his head.’

They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward in gleeful anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in the same way, and this old father is merely copying him.

‘What did you nickname him, Dick?’

‘It was his fags that did it!’

‘I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.’

‘He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.’

‘I won’t tell any one. Come on, Dick.’

‘His fags called him K.C.M.G.’

‘Meaning, meaning, Dick?’

‘Meaning “Kindly Call Me God!”‘

Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing. They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly Mr. Don looks at the door.

‘I think I heard some one, Dick!’

‘Perhaps it’s mother!’

‘She may,’ nervously, ‘have heard the row.’

Dick’s eyes must be twinkling. ‘I say, father, you’ll catch it!’

‘I can’t believe, Dick,’ gazing wistfully into the chair, ‘that she won’t see you.’

It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that answers, ‘Only one may see me.’

‘You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.’

‘Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would mean your losing me.’

‘I can’t give you up, Dick.’

Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little aggrieved.

‘I called to you, Robert.’

‘Yes, I thought–I was just going to—-‘

He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from her to Dick, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the fire. An awe falls upon Mr. Don. He says her name, meaning, ‘See, Grace, who is with us.’

Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms outstretched to her. ‘What is it, Robert? What is the matter?’

She does not hear a voice say, ‘Mother!’

‘I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?’

The father cannot speak.

‘Now you’re in a hole, father!’ says a mischievous, voice.

‘Can I not be told, Robert?’

‘Something in the paper,’ the voice whispers.

Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. ‘Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?’

‘No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick thought you could laugh!’ She goes to the little table. ‘I came back for these slips of paper.’ She lifts them and presses them to her breast. ‘These precious slips of paper!’

Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot hear him, he blurts out, ‘How do you mean, mother? Why are they precious?’

Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer.

‘What is it, Robert?’

‘Didn’t you–hear anything, Grace?’

‘No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.’

‘I wish,’ Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, ‘I wish Laura would come back and say good-night to me.’

‘I daresay she will.’

‘And,’ valiantly, ‘if she could be–rather brighter, Grace.’

‘Robert!’

‘I think Dick would like it.’

Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever forgiving, ‘Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, laugh your fill–if you can. But if Dick were to appear before me to-night—-‘

In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the fire, ‘Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.’

There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing happens. Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his father.

‘Really, Robert!’ Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, who has sank into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. Don clasps it without looking up.

‘Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have liked to hug her; but I can’t.’

‘You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn’t have minded me.’

The wiser boy says, ‘Mother’s a darling, but she doesn’t need me as much as you do.’