Mother, and him, and their marriage, and their first days at the old
house. I knew it was that, even if he did mix it all up about the
spirit of youth beating its wings against the bars. And over and over
again he kept repeating that it was his fault, it was his fault; and
if he could only live it over again he'd do differently.

And right there and then it came to me that Mother said it was her
fault, too; and that if only she could live it over again, _she'd_ do
differently. And here was Father saying the same thing. And all of a
sudden I thought, well, why can't they try it over again, if they both
want to, and if each says it, was their--no, his, no, hers--well, his
and her fault. (How does the thing go? I hate grammar!) But I mean, if
she says it's her fault, and he says it's his. That's what I thought,
anyway. And I determined right then and there to give them the chance
to try again, if speaking would do it.

I looked up at Father. He was still talking half under his breath, his
eyes looking straight ahead. He had forgotten all about me. That was
plain to be seen. If I'd been a cup of coffee without any coffee in
it, he'd have been stirring me. I know he would. He was like that.

"Father. _Father!_" I had to speak twice, before he heard me. "Do you
really mean that you would like to try again?" I asked.

"Eh? What?" And just the way he turned and looked at me showed how
many _miles_ he'd been away from me.

"Try it again, you know--what you said," I reminded him.

"Oh, that!" Such a funny look came to his face, half ashamed, half