Charles was telling the children the story of the bantam hen he had owned when he was a little boy. Letty was curled up on his knees, Marian sat on the arm of his chair, his arm about her, Spencer had drawn his chair close.
"And I used to carry her around in the pocket of my coat, with just her head sticking out, and her bright shiny eyes and her yellow bill."
"Yellow bill?" murmured Letty.
"Just how big was she, Daddy?" Marian asked.
"I'd like a hen like that," said Spencer.
"Some day maybe we can live in a decent place, where we can have hens."
"And a dog, Father?"
"No, a kitty. A little gray soft kitty." Marian looked anxiously at her father. "I'd much rather have a kitty, Daddy."
"We might have both"—and as Letty opened her mouth wide and pink for a protest—"yes, and Letty could have a kitty or a dog or a pet hen. Well, my bantam's name was Mitty. One day——"