From a Bench in Our Square

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

Only once that night did Stepfather Time speak, and then not to me.

“Tell her,” he said in an assured murmur, “that I shan’t be long.”

“Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long,” confirmed Grandfather from his stance on the stairway.

In that assurance Stepfather Time fell asleep. He did not go out again with his pushcart, but sat in the rear room while the Mordaunt Estate in person superintended the job of putting a new front on the house.

The night after it was finished I received an urgent telephone call to come there at once. At the entrance I met the Little Red Doctor coming out.

“The clocks have stopped,” said he gently.

So I turned to cross the park with him.

“I shall certify,” said he, “heart disease.”

“You may certify what you please,” said I. “But what do you believe?”

The Little Red Doctor, who prides himself on being a hard-bitted materialist, glared at me as injuriously as if my innocent question had been an insult.