“I wish Mr. Thrush could see it,” he had observed, laying down the brick he had taken up to add to the tower just before his father had spoken.  “He would be pleased.”

The words had been lifted out on a sigh, the sigh of the wonder-worker who had achieved his mission.  And then they had talked of Mr. Thrush, sitting carefully, almost motionless, beside the tower, and speaking softly “for fear.”  The firelight had danced upon the yellow bricks and upon the cream-colored nursery walls, filtering through the high nursery “guard” which protected Robin from annihilation by fire, and the whisper, whisper of their voices had only emphasized the quiet.  And, with every moment that went by, the lit-up tower had seemed more like a symbol to Dion.  Then at last the cuckoo-clock had chimed and the wooden bird, with trembling tail, had made its jerky obeisance.

“Cuckoo!”

Dion had put his arm round the little figure in the green jersey and the tiny knickerbockers, and had whispered, still governed by the tower: 

“I must go now, Robin.”

“Good-by, Fa,” Robin had whispered back, with his eyes on the tower.

With a very careful movement he had lifted his face to be kissed, and on his soft lips Dion had felt a certain remoteness.  Did the tower stand between him and his little son as he said good-by to Robin?

Just as he had reluctantly let Robin go and, with his legs crossed, had been about to perform the feat of getting up without touching the floor with his hands, and without shaking the bricks in their places,—­moved to this trifling bodily feat by the desire to confront his emotion with an adversary,—­the door behind him had been opened.  Already in movement he had instinctively half-turned round.  Something had happened,—­he never knew exactly what,—­something had escaped from his physical control because his mind had abruptly been deflected from its task of vigilance; there had been a crash and a cry of “Oh, Fa!” from Robin, and he had met Rosamund’s eyes as the tower toppled down in ruin.  Not so much as one brick had been left upon another.

Robin had been greatly distressed.  Tears had come into his eyes, and for a moment he had looked reproachfully at his father.  Then, almost immediately, something chivalrous had spoken within him, admonishing him, and he had managed a smile.

“It’ll be higher next time, Fa, won’t it?” he had murmured, still evidently fighting a keen disappointment.

And Dion had caught him up, given him a hug, whispered “My boy!” to him, put him down and gone straight out of the room with Rosamund, who had not spoken a word.

And that had been the last of Robin for his father.