"Good—and—bad—times," he repeated.
They watched the flames.
After a while Mr. Katzenstein's head fell forward on his chest and he dozed lightly.
The clock ticked somberly and with increasing loudness; twice it traveled its circle, and twice it tonged the hour. The gas-logs burned steadily and kept the shadows dancing. Off somewhere a dog bayed; a creak, which is one of the noises that belong solely to after midnight, came from the direction of one of the windows.
Mr. Katzenstein woke with a start and jerked his head up.
"Mamma!" he cried, dazed with sleep. "Mamma! Birdie! Mamma!"
"Yes, papa," she replied, smiling at him and with her hand still beneath his; "I'm here."