"Father, may I come in, if you are not busy?"
It was Mary who spoke; Mary, the dear eldest daughter, now a woman grown, grave and mild, trying hard to fill the place left empty these two years, since Mother Golden went smiling out of life.
Father Golden looked up from his book; he was an old man now, but his eyes were still young and kind.
"What is it, daughter Mary?"
"The same old story, father dear; Benny in mischief again. This time he has rubbed soot on all the door-handles, and the whole house is black with it. I hate to trouble you, father, but I expect you'll have to speak to him. I do love the child so, I'm not strict enough—I'm ashamed to say it, but they all think so, and I know it's true—and Adam is too strict."
"Yes, Adam is too strict," said Father Golden. He looked at a portrait that stood on his desk, a framed photograph of Mother Golden.
"I'll speak to the child, Mary," he said. "I'll see that this does not happen again. What is it, Ruthie?"
"I was looking for Mary, father. I wanted—oh, Mary! what shall I do with Benny? he has tied Rover and the cat together by their tails, and they are rushing all about the garden almost crazy. I must finish this work, so I can't attend to it. He says he is playing Samson. I wish you would speak to him, father."
"I will do so, Ruth, I will do so. Don't be distressed, my daughter."
"But he is so naughty, father! he is so different from the other boys. Joe never used to play such tricks when he was little."