An ashen pallor spread over father’s countenance, the letter dropped from his hand and he would have fallen if mother had not caught him in her arms.  She grabbed the evil message, slipping it into the bosom of her gown, where it could do no further harm.

Then she guided father’s faltering steps to the sanctity of his studio, where he wrote his sermons and closed the door.

My sisters availed themselves of the opportunity to make a raid on mother’s pantry, but I, poor little innocent, waited in the corridor for mother’s return, dreading to hear the worst.  I heard my dear father groan aloud and bemoan his fate and listened to mother’s soothing sympathetic words as she begged father to be calm and bear it like a man and a Christian.

When at last mother came out I flew to her.  She took me to her arms, kissing my tear-stained face.

“Poor little boy,” she said, “cheer up and you shall have a big cookie, don’t you cry!”

“Oh, mamma,” I faltered, “will papa die?”

“No, sonny, that he won’t,” said she with a determined glint of her eyes and a twitching of the corners of her mouth, “for I won’t let him; but he does suffer anguish!”

“Oh, tell me, mamma, what misfortune has befallen us,” I cried.

“It is very sad,” said mother.  “Your father, who is the finest speaker in the country, has been commanded by a worshipful senate and most honorable civic corporation of the Free City of Hamburg to appear before the visiting king in full dress, and officiate as orator of the day at a reception to be tendered his majesty by our city”—­here mother broke down completely, overwhelmed by grief and wept copiously into her handkerchief.

“Oh, oh,” I wailed, “do say it, mamma!”

“And—­and your father has no coat!” she sobbed.  “Poor man, he fears disgrace and dreads the loss of preferment and of a royal decoration, perhaps.  He will have to feign sickness as an excuse for his absence; but I hope he realizes now how degraded and unhappy I must feel with my last year’s gowns and made-over millinery—­and your poor sister’s ancient bonnets, I dare not look at them any longer!”

“But papa has a coat,” I said, “a royal Prince Albert!”

“True,” answered mother, “but it has no swallow’s tails!”

“A Prince Albert has no swallow-tails?” I gasped wonderingly; “but it has great, long tails, surely!”

“Oh, now I see,” an idea flashing through my mind; “it has cock-tails, has it, mamma, and it can’t swallow them, can it, mamma?”

“Oh my, oh my!” screamed mother, “you are the funniest little chap to ask me questions.  Go, ask pussy!”

Then I went into the back yard to interview my favorite playmate, our big, black tomcat, and aroused him from his cat nap.  But he blinked sleepily only, saying nothing.

However, speech was not to be denied me in that manner, for I held the combination which unlocks the portals of silence.  I gave the handle a double twist and he spat and spluttered:  “Sh—­sh—­sht—­t—­t!”