“Certainly, do,” he answered, impatient and scowling.  “What shall we do?”

“Why, Father, I—­I don’t know,” I stammered again.

“Come, come, of course you know!” he cried.  “You know what you want to do, don’t you?”

I shook my head.  I was so astonished I couldn’t even think.  And when you can’t think you certainly can’t talk.

“Nonsense, Mary,” scowled Father again.  “Of course you know what you want to do!  What are you in the habit of doing with your young friends—­your Carries and Charlies, and all the rest?”

I guess I just stood and stared and didn’t say anything; for after a minute he cried:  “Well—­well—­well?  I’m waiting.”

“Why, we—­we walk—­and talk—­and play games,” I began; but right away he interrupted.

“Good!  Very well, then, we’ll walk.  I’m not Carrie or Charlie, but I believe I can walk and talk—­perhaps even play games.  Who knows?  Come, get your hat.”

And I got my hat, and we went.

But what a funny, funny walk that was!  He meant to make it a good one; I know he did.  And he tried.  He tried real hard.  But he walked so fast I couldn’t half keep up with him; then, when he saw how I was hurrying, he’d slow down, ’way down, and look so worried—­till he’d forget and go striding off again, way ahead of me.

We went up on the hill through the Benton woods, and it was perfectly lovely up there.  He didn’t say much at first.  Then, all of a sudden, he began to talk, about anything and everything.  And I knew, by the way he did it, that he’d just happened to think he’d got to talk.

And how he talked!  He asked me was I warmly clad (and here it is August!), and did I have a good breakfast, and how old was I, and did I enjoy my studies—­which shows how little he was really thinking what he was saying.  He knows school closed ages ago.  Wasn’t he teaching me himself the last of it, too?  All around us were flowers and birds, and oh, so many, many lovely things.  But he never said a word about them.  He just talked—­because he’d got to talk.  I knew it, and it made me laugh inside, though all the while it made me sort of want to cry, too.  Funny, wasn’t it?

After a time he didn’t talk any more, but just walked on and on; and by and by we came home.

Of course, it wasn’t awfully jolly—­that walk wasn’t; and I guess Father didn’t think it was either.  Anyhow, he hasn’t asked me to go again this week, and he looked tired and worried and sort of discouraged when he got back from that one.

But he’s asked me to do other things.  The next day after the walk he asked me to play to him.  Yes, he asked me to; and he went into the parlor and sat down on one of the chairs and listened while I played three pieces.  Of course, I didn’t play loud ones, nor very fast ones, and I was so scared I’m afraid I didn’t play them very well.  But he was very polite and said, “Thank you, Mary,” and, “That that was very nice”; then he stood up and said, “Thank you” again and went away into the library, very polite, but stiff, like company.