"Did he always strike you on the head, Archie?" she asked suddenly.
He knocked the little house over with a sweep of his hand and looked up.
"Generally," he said quietly. "But it doesn't matter, you know. He generally went for the back of my head because it didn't make any mark, as I have such thick hair, so I hit him in the same place. It's all right. It was quite fair. I say, mother, I'm going to throw these things away, now that you know all about them. What's the good of keeping them, anyway? I'm sure I don't know why I ever liked them."
"Give them to me," answered Helen. "Perhaps some poor child might like them."
But she knew that she meant to keep them.
"Well, there isn't much paint on those tin soldiers, you know. I don't believe any child would care for them much. At least not so much as I did, because I was used to them. Of course that made a difference. But you may have them, if you like. I don't want them any more. They're only in the way."
"Give them to me, for the present."
"All right, mother." And he began to pack the toys into the box.
He did it very carefully and neatly, for the habit was strong, though the memory was weak. Still Helen watched him, without changing her attitude. He sighed as he put in the last of the tin soldiers.
"I suppose I shall really never care for them again," he said.