“Temperance, is that pound cake, or sponge?”

“Pound.”

“Charles can eat it,” Verry said with a sigh.

“A mighty small piece he’ll have—­the glutton.  But he has not been here long; they are all so when they first come.”

She then gave him a large slice of the cake.

Veronica, contrary to her wont, huddled herself on the sofa.  Arthur played round the chair of mother, who looked happy and forgetful.  After Temperance had rearranged the table for father’s supper we were quiet.  I meditated how I could best amuse myself, where I should go, and what I should do, when Veronica, whom I had forgotten, interrupted my thoughts.

“Mother,” she said, “eating toast does not make me better-tempered; I feel evil still.  You know,” turning to me, “that my temper is worse than ever; it is like a tiger’s.”

“Oh, Verry,” said mother, “not quite so bad; you are too hard upon yourself.”

“Mother, you said so to Hepsey, when I tore her turban from her head, it was so ugly.  Can you forget you said such a thing?”

“Verry, you drive me wild.  Must I say that I was wrong?  Say so to my own child?”

Verry turned her face to the wall and said no more; but she had started a less pleasant train of thought.  It was changed again by Temperance coming with lights.  Though the tall brass lamps glittered like gold, their circle of light was small; the corners of the room were obscure.  Mr. Park, entering, retreated into one, and mother was obliged to forego the pleasure of undressing Arthur; so she sent him off with Temperance and Charles, whose duty it was to rock the cradle as long as his babyship required.

Soon after father came, and Hepsey brought in his hot supper; while he was eating it, Grandfather John Morgeson bustled in.  As he shook hands with me, I saw that his hair had whitened; he held a tasseled cane between his knees, and thumped the floor whenever he asked a question.  Mr. Park buzzed about the last Sunday’s discourse, and mother listened with a vague, respectful attention.  Her hand was pressed against her breast, as if she were repressing an inward voice which claimed her attention.  Leaning her head against her chair, she had quite pushed out her comb, her hair dropped on her shoulder, and looked like a brown, coiled serpent.  Veronica, who had been silently observing her, rose from the sofa, picked up the comb, and fastened her hair, without speaking.  As she passed she gave me a dark look.

“Eh, Verry,” said father, “are you there?  Were you glad to see Cassy home again?”

“Should I be glad?  What can she do?”

Grandfather pursed up his mouth, and turned toward mother, as if he would like to say:  “You understand bringing up children, don’t you?”

She comprehended him, and, giving her head a slight toss, told Verry to go and play on the piano.

“I was going,” she answered pettishly, and darting out a moment after we heard her.