Long ago, Aunt Jennie, you told me that a man is nothing but a grown-up boy. This one looked around the room. Daddy was smiling at him in his dear friendly fashion, and the other two were kindliness itself.
"A fellow doesn't always take his medicine like a little man," he said, apologetically, "and you're all ever so good."
Then he left, still looking just a little bit ashamed of himself, as I've seen fellows do in a defeated crew when they have sunk down for a moment on their sliding seats.
"I think the boy feels alone, sometimes," said Mrs. Barnett. "He has really a great deal to contend with. But he is a splendid fellow, and I'm sorry for him. Every one loves him in Sweetapple Cove, you know."
Presently the two left us, after I had promised to go to the little church on the next day. Susie had come in with a lighted lantern, clad to her feet in an ancient oilskin coat, and insisted on seeing them home. They thanked us very charmingly and I watched their departure, the reflections of the light playing over the deep puddles on the road.
Then I sat down by Daddy's bed, pondering.
"A penny for your thoughts, daughter," he said.
"I was thinking that men are very interesting," I told him. "Dr. Grant always looks like such a strong man."
"And now you think you have discovered the feet of clay?"
"Well, it seemed quite strange, Daddy."