“Now what do you mean?”
Mr. Dale’s white face quieted down suddenly; for his daughter—his small, young, ignorant daughter—to dare to mention the greatest name, in his opinion, of all the ages, was too much for him.
“You are always talking to us about Plato,” said Patty, who grew braver and braver as she proceeded. “You talk of Plato one day, and Virgil another day, and you always tell us how great they were; but if they were really great they would not be dirty, and this room was horrid and dirty, father. It really was. Nice, great, good, noble people are clean. Aunt Sophy says so, and she knows. Since Aunt Sophy came we have been very happy, and the house has been clean and nice. And I love Aunt Sophy, and so does Briar. I am very sorry, father, but I think when we made your room sweet and pretty as it is now we pleased Plato and Virgil—that is, if they can see us.”
“If Plato and Virgil can see mites like you?” said Mr. Dale.
He took up his spectacles, poised them on his forehead, and gazed at the children.
“There is the door,” he said. “Go.”
They vanished. Mr. Dale sank into a chair.
“Upon my word!” he said several times. “Upon—my—word! So Plato liked things clean, and Virgil liked things orderly. Upon—my—word!”
He sat perfectly motionless for a time. His brain was working, for his glasses were sometimes removed and then put on again, and several times he brushed his hand through his hair. Finally he took up his hat, and, gazing at the frills of the white window-curtains, he opened the French windows, and, with an agile leap, found himself in the open air. He went for a walk—a long one. When he came back he entered his clean study, to find the lamp burning brightly, his Plato restored to its place by his left-hand side, and a fresh pad of blotting-paper on the table. His own old pen was not removed, but the inkpot was clean and filled with fresh ink. He took his pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote on a sheet of paper, “Plato likes things clean, and Virgil likes things orderly,” and then pinned the paper on the opposite wall.
For the rest of the evening the astonished household were much beguiled and overcome by the most heavenly strains from Mr. Dale’s violin. He played it in the study until quite late at night; but none of the household went to bed, so divine, so restoring, so comforting was that music.