st that--it
was a joyous something that I could not describe. It was as if she
were a bird, poised for flight. I know it now for what it was--the
very incarnation of the spirit of youth. And she _was_ young. Why,
Mary, she was not so many years older than you yourself, now."

I nodded, and I guess I sighed.

"I know--where the brook and river meet," I said; "only they won't let
_me_ have any lovers at all."

"Eh? What?" Father had turned and was looking at me so funny. "Well,
no, I should say not," he said then. "You aren't sixteen yet. And your
mother--I suspect _she_ was too young. If she hadn't been quite so
young--"

He stopped, and stared again straight ahead at the dancers--without
seeing one of them, I knew. Then he drew a great deep sigh that seemed
to come from the very bottom of his boots.

"But it was my fault, my fault, every bit of it," he muttered, still
staring straight ahead. "If I hadn't been so thoughtless--As if I
could imprison that bright spirit of youth in a great dull cage of
conventionality, and not expect it to bruise its wings by fluttering
against the bars!"

I thought that was perfectly beautiful--that sentence. I said it right
over to myself two or three times so I wouldn't forget how to write it
down here. So I didn't quite hear the next things that Father said.
But when I did notice, I found he was still talking--and it was about
Mother, and him, and their marriage, and their first days at the old
house. I knew it was that, even if he did mix it all up about the
spirit of youth beating its wings against the bars. And over and over
again he kept repeating that it was his fault, it was his fault; and
if he could only live it over again he'd do differently.

And right there and then it came to me that Mother said it was her
fault, too; and that if only she could live it over again, _she'd_ do
differently. And here was Father saying the same thing. And all of a
sudden I thought, well, why can't they try it over again, if they both
want to, and if each says it, was their--no, his, no, hers--well, his
and her fault. (How does the thing go? I hate grammar!) But I mean, if
she says it's her fault, and he says it's his. That's what I thought,
anyway. And I determined right then and there to give them the chance
to try again, if speaking would do it.

I looked up at Father. He was still talking half under his breath, his
eyes looking straight ahead. He had forgotten all about me. That was