A Fool There Was

by Porter Emerson Browne

"I hope so," he replied. "Ah, how I hope so." Lips and voice both quivered, now.

"And we can play horsie?" she asked.

"Yes," he assented. He essayed to lift her; but even the tiny weight of the little form was too much for his shattered strength. His head sunk upon the table, arm-buried. His body shook.

The child did not see; which was well. She was looking at her mother.

"Mother, dear," she said reproachfully. "You forgot to kiss daddy."

"Did I? I'm sorry."

Willingly Kathryn went to him. He raised thin, white hand in protest.

"Not now," he murmured, brokenly. "It's not fair—not right!"

The situation was hard—hard for all—no less hard for her than for him— no less hard for Blake than for either. He stepped forward, forcing a lightness of tone and of word that lay farthest from his thought. He laid his hand lightly on Schuyler's shoulder.

"Come, Jack," he said crisply. "It's quite all right. There's no cause for anything but gladness. I'll see them to the hotel, and come back for you."