"Mother, why do you sew and sew and sew all the time? Hm, Mother?"
All through the long evenings till bed-time came, and long afterwards, Father and Mother talked low together before the fire. The murmur of their voices downstairs was the last thing you heard before you fell asleep. It sounded like the brook in the meadow where the little green frogs lived, hopping through water-rings.
Of those secret conferences by the fire you could make nothing at all. Mother stopped you whenever you drew near.
"Run away, dear, and play."
You frowned and sidled off as far as the door, lingering wistfully.
"Father, the Jones boy made fun of me to-day. He called me Patchy-pants."
"Never mind what the Jones boy says," Mother broke in; but Father said, "He ought to have a new pair, Mother." You brightened at that.
"The Jones boy's got awful nice pants," you said; "all striped like a zebra."
Father smiled a little at that. Mother looked down at her sewing, saying never a word. That night you dreamed you had new pants, all spotted like a leopard, and you were proud, for every one knows that a leopard could whip a zebra, once he jumped upon his back.
Leaning on the garden fence, the Jones boy watched you as you sprinkled the geraniums with your little green watering-can.