"I don't want a nice, kind lady. I want my mamma. She always hears me say my Now-I-lay-me."

"Your what?" he asked, not understanding.

"My Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep. That's my prayers. She always hears me say them when she comes to kiss me good-night."

He looked away, with a sudden rush of pain. There were tears in his eyes now. "Of course. Bobbie--I--I understand," he faltered.

"She said I must never, never skip, for the Lord would know, and be angry."

"Let me hear you, dear."

"Do you know prayers?" The child looked at his father in wonder. "I didn't know men knew prayers."

"Yes, Bobbie. Sometimes they do. Go ahead."

The child folded his hands, and stood at his father's knee. "If I don't remember it all, you must tell me," he continued.

"Very well, dear; I will." The tears were coming fast now.

"'Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to--to--'" The quavering little voice halted.

"'Keep,'" his father supplied.

"'Keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Amen.'" He looked at his father expectantly. "You didn't say, 'Amen,'

papa. Mamma always says it."

"'Amen,'" repeated Donald gravely, as he kissed the boy's tousled head.

"Do you think, papa, if I pray the Lord to send mamma back, she will come?"

"I think she might, dear. When you go to bed, you must wish that she will just as hard as you can."

"And then to-morrow she will be here?" cried the child eagerly.

"I--I hope so, dear. Are you ready now?" He rose and led the little fellow toward the bedroom door.

"Yes, papa. I'm not afraid now. Good-night." He put up his face to be kissed.

"Good-night, dear." The father kissed him almost reverently, and, after the door was closed, stood for a long time gazing at it--his face twitching. Then he threw himself into a chair, rested his arms upon the desk, and buried his face in his hands, in a paroxysm of sobbing. It was the first time in many years that Donald Rogers had cried.

It was some ten minutes later that he was roused by the ringing of the door-bell. He rose, crossed to the door, and opened it, to admit Mrs.

Pope and Alice.

Mrs. Pope advanced into the room with her accustomed air of ruffled dignity. "Donald--what does all this foolishness mean?" she inquired.

"I don't understand you," he answered shortly. "What do you want here?"

"Can you have the audacity to ask me that? I am here to protect my daughter's rights."

"Did she send you?" he asked quietly.

"I do not need anyone to send me when my child's happiness is at stake.

What does this outrageous conduct mean?"

"Mother! For goodness sake, be a little more polite," interjected Alice.

"Alice, be quiet!" Her mother regarded her with stern disapproval. "This is no time for mincing matters." She turned angrily to her son-in-law.

"Do you intend to answer my question?"

Donald regarded her with a dislike he took no pains to hide. "I owe no explanation of my conduct to you," he said.

"Sir, do you think a mother has no rights?"

Again Alice interrupted. "Mother--wait--please." She stepped between them. "Edith is suffering very much, Donald."

"So am I," he remarked grimly.

"Then why don't you stop it?" Mrs. Pope was not to be put off. "What do you mean by dashing out of the house like a madman, kidnaping your child, and disgracing us all before a stranger? It's outrageous!"

"Disgracing you! What about my disgrace?" Donald turned from her and addressed himself to Alice. "Alice," he asked, "does your mother know why I left New London? Do you?"

"Yes--I--know what Emerson said."

Again Mrs. Pope interrupted. "I know that you accuse my daughter of carrying on a love-affair with Mr. West," she cried. "I don't believe it--but what of it? What if she did? You did precious little for her, goodness knows. Now that she has a little happiness, you want to take it away from her, just because you didn't give it to her. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"I'll settle this matter with my wife--not with you." Donald's voice showed his irritation at her interference.

"Poor child! My poor child! Why will you not listen to reason?"

"I don't care to discuss the matter any further. Our ideas are too different on some subjects." He went over toward the desk, turning his back upon the others.

Mrs. Pope, however, refused to be turned aside. "I should hope they were," she a.s.serted doggedly. "I didn't come here to discuss the matter, either. I came to ask you to come back to New London with Bobbie at once."

"What you ask is impossible," said Donald, without turning. "I shall never go back there again."

"What! After taking the house for the summer? What will everyone think?"

"It makes no difference to me what they think. It is what I think that concerns me now."

"You always did think of no one but yourself. Do you expect my daughter to spend the summer there alone? Can't you see that it is out of the question?" Mrs. Pope was shaking with rage.

"No," cried Donald, turning on her angrily. "I do not expect her to spend the summer there alone. I expect her to return here to me."

"To return here!" exclaimed Mrs. Pope, aghast. "To spend the summer in this place! Are you mad?"

"No--I am not. Sometimes I think money has made you so."

Mrs. Pope paid no attention to his words. She was too busy trying to grasp the full purport of what she had just heard. "What can you be thinking of?" she cried. "Spend the summer here--in this tenement--with thirty thousand dollars a year?"