“The evening is touched with a slight coolness,” said Mr. Kinosling.  “Perhaps I may request the little gentleman——­”

“B’gr-r-Ruff!” coughed Mr. Schofield.  “You’d better change your mind about a cigar.”

“No, I thank you.  I was about to request the lit——­”

“Do try one,” Margaret urged.  “I’m sure papa’s are nice ones.  Do try——­”

“No, I thank you.  I remarked a slight coolness in the air, and my hat is in the hallway.  I was about to request——­”

“I’ll get it for you,” said Penrod suddenly.

“If you will be so good,” said Mr. Kinosling.  “It is a black bowler hat, little gentleman, and placed upon a table in the hall.”

“I know where it is.”  Penrod entered the door, and a feeling of relief, mutually experienced, carried from one to another of his three relatives their interchanged congratulations that he had recovered his sanity.

“‘The day is done, and the darkness,’” began Mr. Kinosling—­and recited that poem entire.  He followed it with “The Children’s Hour,” and after a pause, at the close, to allow his listeners time for a little reflection upon his rendition, he passed his handagain over his head, and called, in the direction of the doorway: 

“I believe I will take my hat now, little gentleman.”

“Here it is,” said Penrod, unexpectedly climbing over the porch railing, in the other direction.  His mother and father and Margaret had supposed him to be standing in the hallway out of deference, and because he thought it tactful not to interrupt the recitations.  All of them remembered, later, that this supposed thoughtfulness on his part struck them as unnatural.

“Very good, little gentleman!” said Mr. Kinosling, and being somewhat chilled, placed the hat firmly upon his head, pulling it down as far as it would go.  It had a pleasant warmth, which he noticed at once.  The next instant, he noticed something else, a peculiar sensation of the scalp—­a sensation which he was quite unable to define.  He lifted his hand to take the hat off, and entered upon a strange experience:  his hat seemed to have decided to remain where it was.

“Do you like Tennyson as much as Longfellow, Mr. Kinosling?” inquired Margaret.

“I—­ah—­I cannot say,” he returned absently.  “I—­ah—­each has his own—­ugh! flavour and savour, each his—­ah—­ah——­”

Struck by a strangeness in his tone, she peered at him curiously through the dusk.  His outlines were indistinct, but she made out that his arms were, uplifted in a singular gesture.  He seemed to be wrenching at his head.

“Is—­is anything the matter?” she asked anxiously.  “Mr. Kinosling, are you ill?”

“Not at—­ugh!—­all,” he replied, in the same odd tone.  “I—­ah—­I believe—­ugh!”

He dropped his hands from his hat, and rose.  His manner was slightly agitated.  “I fear I may have taken a trifling—­ah—­cold.  I should—­ah—­perhaps be—­ah—­better at home.  I will—­ah—­say good-night.”