She put her slim white forefinger on his lips.

He smiled.  “Oh!  I forgot.  You’re Adelaide, of course, since you’ve grown up.”

“Why call me out of my name?” she demanded, gayly.  “You should have christened me Delia if you had wanted me named that.”

“I’ll try to remember, next time,” he said, meekly.  His gray eyes were dancing and twinkling like sunbeams pouring from breaches in a spent storm-cloud; there was an eloquence of pleasure far beyond laughter’s in the rare, infrequent eye smiles from his sober, strong face.

Now there was a squeaking and chattering behind them.  Adelaide whirled free of her father’s arms and caught up the monkey.  “Put out your hand, sir,” said she, and she kissed him.  Her father shuddered, so awful was the contrast between the wizened, dirty-brown face and her roselike skin and fresh fairness.  “Put out your hand and bow, sir,” she went on.  “This is Mr. Hiram Ranger, Mr. Simeon.  Mr. Simeon, Mr. Ranger; Mr. Ranger, Mr. Simeon.”

Hiram, wondering at his own weakness, awkwardly took the paw so uncannily like a mummied hand.  “What did you do this for, Adelaide?” said he, in a tone of mild remonstrance where he had intended to be firm.

“He’s so fascinating, I couldn’t resist.  He’s so wonderfully human—­”

“That’s it,” said her father; “so—­so—­”

“Loathsomely human,” interjected Arthur.

“Loathsome,” said the father.

“That impression soon wears off,” assured Adelaide, “and he’s just like a human being as company.  I’d be bored to death if I didn’t have him.  He gives me an occupation.”

At this the cloud settled on Ranger’s face again—­a cloud of sadness.  An occupation!

Simeon hid his face in Adelaide’s shoulder and began to whimper.  She patted him softly.  “How can you be so cruel?” she reproached her father.  “He has feelings almost like a human being.”

Ranger winced.  Had the daughter not been so busy consoling her unhappy pet, the father’s expression might have suggested to her that there was, not distant from her, a being who had feelings, not almost, but quite human, and who might afford an occupation for an occupation-hunting young woman which might make love and care for a monkey superfluous.  But he said nothing.  He noted that the monkey’s ribbon exactly matched the embroidery on Adelaide’s dress.

“If he were a dog or a cat, you wouldn’t mind,” she went on.

True enough!  Clearly, he was unreasonable with her.

“Do you want me to send him away?”

“I’ll get used to him, I reckon,” replied Hiram, adding, with a faint gleam of sarcasm, “I’ve got used to a great many things these last few years.”

They went silently into the house, Adelaide and Arthur feeling that their father had quite unreasonably put a damper upon their spirits—­a feeling which he himself had.  He felt that he was right, and he was puzzled to find himself, even in his own mind, in the wrong.