"Fa-ther!" cried Lizbeth. "Will you play house with us?"
"Oh no, Father. Play store with us," you cried.
"Don't bother Father," Mother said, but Father just held you both in his arms and would not let you go.
"No—let them stay," he said, and Mother slipped away.
"Mother's got an awful cold," said Lizbeth. "Her eyes—"
"So has Father; only Father's cold is in his voice," you said.
You scarcely waited to eat your breakfast before you were back again to Father by the fire, telling him of the beautiful games just three could play. But while you were telling him the door-bell rang, and there were two men with books under their arms, come to see Father. They stayed with him all day long—you could hear them muttering in the library—and all day you looked wistfully at the closed door, lingering there lest Father should come out to play and find you gone.
He did not come out till dinner-time. After dinner he walked in the garden alone. He held a cigar in his clinched teeth.
"Why don't you smoke the cigar, Father?"
He did not hear you. He just walked up and down, up and down, with his eyes on the ground and his hands thrust hard into the pockets of his coat.