in the dearest little voice. 'How can a man like _you_ care to talk to a
child like _me_?'"

"Did I say that? I don't remember."

"_She_ said it."

"It sounds rather silly of her."

"She wasn't silly. She was clever as they make them. And she was pretty
too. She had lots of hair, hanging down her back. Curling.... And they
take her away from me and I wait three years for her. She knew I was
waiting. And when I come back to her she won't look at me. She sits on
the fender and stares at the fire. She wears horrible black clothes."

"Because Papa's dead."

"She goes and cuts her hair all off. That isn't because your father's
dead."

"It'll grow again."

"Not for another three years. And I believe I hear your mother coming
back."

His chin dropped to his chest again. He brooded morosely. Presently Catty
came in with the coffee.

The next day he was gone.