Brooklyn. He was sitting on the floor with our boy gravely intent on a
toy circus. Neither one was saying a word, but as Joe carefully poised
an elephant on the top of a tall red ladder, I recalled my wife's
injunction. By Jove, he did fit into a home, here certainly was a
different Joe. He did not see me at the door. Later I called to him from
our bedroom:

"Say, Joe. Don't you want to come in and wash?"

He came in, and presently watching him I noticed his glances about our
room. It was most decidedly Eleanore's room, from the flowered curtains
to the warm soft rug on the floor. It was gay, it was quiet and restful,
it was intimately personal. Here was her desk with a small heap of
letters and photographs of our son and of me, and here close by was her
dressing-table strewn with all its dainty equipment. A few invitations
were stuck in the mirror. Eleanore's hat and crumpled white gloves lay
on our bed. I had thrown my coat beside them. There were such things in
this small room as Joe had never dreamed of.

"Oh Joe," said Eleanore from the hall. "Don't you want to come into the
nursery? Somebody wants a pillow fight."

"Sure," said Joe, with a queer little start.

"By the way," I heard her add outside. "Billy told me he saw Mrs. Marsh,
and I should so like to meet her, too. Couldn't you have us all down to
your room some evening?"

"If you like," he answered gruffly.

"I'm honestly curious," Eleanore said, "to see what kind of a person she
is. And I'm sure that Sue is, too. May we bring her with us?"

"Of course you may--whenever you like."

"Would Friday evening be too soon?"

"I'll see if I can fix it."

When Eleanore came in to me, her lips were set tight as though something
had hurt her.

"That was pretty tough," I muttered.

"Yes, wasn't it," she said quickly. "I don't care, I'm not going to have
him marrying Sue. I'm too fond of both of them. Besides, your father has
to be thought of. It would simply kill him!"

* * * * *

"Yes," I thought to myself that night. "No doubt about that, it would
kill him."

How much older he looked, in the strong light of the huge old-fashioned
gas lamp that hung over the dining-room table. He was making a visible
effort to be young and genial. He had not seen Joe in several years, and
he evidently knew nothing whatever of what Joe was up to, except that he
had been ill at our home. Joe spoke of what we had done for him, and Sue