"Sorry—my fault. It's such a jolly word, and I didn't think you'd know any better.... But it was all in vain; he would talk of nothing but grass and weeds. I tried to comfort his wife as I left, but my heart was very heavy. That night, Henry, the blow fell! They managed to lure Pilning in to dinner when it got dusk, but his mind was wandering a lot. Finally he broke down completely, and made a desperate assault with a toothpick on the baby's scalp. His wife fetched one of the neighbours to sit on his head while she went for the doctor; but it was too late. His reason had become utterly unhinged. There was nothing for it but to put him away in a home, and there he has remained for five long years.
"Only last week I went to ask how he was, and the doctor said there was no change, but that he was quite harmless. I was shown into a little room where he lived, and there I saw him on the floor talking and laughing to himself. But he took no notice of me when I spoke to him. They told me he was quite happy and would spend hours a day like that at his work."
"What sort of work?" asked Henry.
"The last time I saw poor Pilning," I replied sadly, "he was squatting on the carpet and trying to jab the pattern out with a fork."
It is reported that owing to the overproduction of mittens and the consequent slump in this article, one London firm of manufacturers has no fewer than 100,000 pairs on its hands.
Vicar. "Now, children, we are to love our enemies. That isn't easy, is it?"
Small Boy. "No, Sir."