“I think,” said Peter, “it sounded like——It wasn’t ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ was it?”

Tommy clapped her hands. “Yes, it was. You’ll end by liking it yourself, dad. We’ll have musical ‘At Homes.’ ”

“Tommy, have I brought you up properly, do you think?”

“No, dad, you haven’t. You have let me have my own way too much. You know the proverb: ‘Good mothers make bad daughters.’ Clodd’s right ; you’ve spoilt me, dad. Do you remember, dad, when I first came to you, seven years ago, a ragged little brat out of the streets, that didn’t know itself whether ’twas a boy or a girl? Do you know what I thought to myself the moment I set eyes on you? ‘Here’s a soft old Juggins; I’ll be all right if I can get in here!’ It makes you smart, knocking about in the gutters and being knocked about; you read faces quickly.”

“Do you remember your cooking, Tommy? You ‘had an aptitude for it,’ according to your own idea.”

Tommy laughed. “I wonder how you stood it.”

“You were so obstinate. You came to me as ‘cook and housekeeper,’ and as cook and housekeeper, and as nothing else, would you remain. If I suggested any change, up would go your chin into the air. I dared not even dine out too often, you were such a little tyrant. The only thing you were always ready to do, if I wasn’t satisfied, was to march out of the house and leave me. Wherever did you get that savage independence of yours?”

“I don’t know. I think it must have been from a woman—perhaps she was my mother; I don’t know—who used to sit up in the bed and cough, all night it seemed to me. People would come to see us—ladies in fine clothes, and gentlemen with only hair. I think they wanted to help us. Many of them had kind voices. But always a hard look would come into her face, and she would tell them what even then I knew to be untrue—it was one of the first things I can recollect—that we had everything we wanted, that we needed no help from anyone. They would go away, shrugging their shoulders. I grew up with the feeling that seemed to have been burnt into my brain, that to take from anybody anything you had not earned was shameful. I don’t think I could do it even now, not even from you. I am useful to you, dad—I do help you?”

There had crept a terror into Tommy’s voice. Peter felt that little hands upon his arm trembling.

“Help me? Why, you work like a nigger—like a nigger is supposed to work, but doesn’t. No one—whatever we paid him—would do half as much. I don’t want to make your head more swollen than it is, young woman, but you have talent; I am not sure it is not genius.” Peter felt the little hands tighten upon his arm.

“I do want this paper to be a success ; that is why I strum upon the piano to please Clodd. Is it humbug?”

“I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that helps this whirling world of ours to spin round smoothly. Too much of it cloys: we drop it very gently.

“But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?” It was Peter’s voice into which fear had entered now. “It is not that you think he understands you better than I do—would do more for you?”

“You want me to tell you all I think of you, and that isn’t good for you, dad—not too often. It would be you who would have swelled head then.”

“I am jealous, Tommy, jealous of everyone that comes near you. Life is a tragedy for us old folks. We know there must come a day when you will leave the nest, leave us voiceless, ridiculous, flitting among bare branches. You will understand later, when you have children of your own. This foolish talk about a