Thinking of woman’s love,—­that, like the peace of God it passeth all understanding,—­I officiated absently as one of two guests at a “tea-party.”  My fellow-guest was a large doll braced stiffly in its chair; a doll whose waxen face had been gouged by vandal nails.  That was an old tragedy, though a sickening one at the time.  The doll had been my Christmas offering to the woman child, and in the dusk of that joyous day my namesake had craved of its proud mother the boon of holding it a little while.  Relinquished trustingly to him, he had sat with it by a cheerful fire—­without evil intent, I do truly believe.  Surely it was by chance that he found its waxen face softening under the stove’s glow—­and has Heaven affixed nails to any boy of seven that, in a dusky room at a quiet moment, would have behaved with more restraint?  I trow not.  One surprised dig and all was lost.  Of that fair surface of rounded cheek, fattened chin, and noble brow not a square inch was left ungouged.  It was indeed a face of evil suggestion that the unsuspecting mother took back.

That was the evening when the Crowders, living next door, had rushed over in the belief that my woman child was being murdered.  The criminal had never been able to advance the shadow of a reason or excuse for his mad act.  He seemed to be as honestly puzzled by it as the rest of us, though I rejoice to say that he was not left without reason to deplore it.

But the mother—­the true mother—­had thereafter loved the disfigured thing but the more.  She promptly divested it of all its splendid garments, as a precaution against further vandalism, and the naked thing with its scarred face was ever an honored guest at our functions.

“You really must get some clothes for Irene,” I said.  “That’s not quite the right thing, you know, having her sit there without any.”

In much annoyance she rebuked me, whispering, for this thoughtless lapse from my role as guest.  At our parties Irene was no longer Irene, but “Mrs. Judge Robinson,” and justly sensitive about her faulty complexion and lack of clothes.

“Besides,” came the whisper again, “I am going to make her some clothes—­a lovely veil to go over her face.”

Resuming her company voice, and with the aplomb of a perfect hostess who has rectified the gaucherie of an awkward guest, she pressed upon me another cup of the custard coffee, and tactfully inquired of the supposedly embarrassed Mrs. Judge Robinson if she did not think this was very warm weather for this time of year.

The proprieties being thus mended, our hostess raised her voice and bade Mrs. Sullivan, within doors, to hurry with the next course, which, I was charmed to learn, would be lemon soup and frosted cake.  Mrs. Sullivan’s response, though audible only to her mistress, who was compelled to cock an intent ear toward the kitchen, seemed to be in some manner shuffling or evasive.

“What’s that?” she exclaimed sharply, listening again.  Then, with dignity, “Well, if you don’t hurry, I’ll have to come right in there and see to you this minute!”