ssly, sniffing in a manner that showed plainly
how little reliance she placed upon the generosity and judgment of
adults. And Cody walked away, haunted by the tormenting vision of Split
flying before him through the moonlit night: the only girl in town who
had any originality about choosing hiding-places, or who could make a
race worth while.

The family was assembled when Split reached the library and sat down,
rebelliously sullen, beside Sissy. That young woman, though, wore an
expression of purified patience, a submissive willingness to kiss the
rod, that was eminently appropriate, however infuriating to the junior
Madigans. But Sissy had known that it was coming. She could have
foretold the martyrdom; all the signs of yesterday prophesied it, and
she was reconciled.

It followed invariably that after the rare occasions when the pitiful
curtain of his egotism had been blown aside by some chance breeze of
destiny, and Francis Madigan had stood for a moment face to face with
himself and his shirked responsibilities, he made the spasmodic effort
to fulfil his paternal obligations, which the Madigans had learned to
call their "martyring." He took from his library the book which had been
most to him, which he had read all his life: for inspiration when he had
been young and hopeful, for philosophy now that he was old and a
failure. He was sincere in offering to his children the fruit of a great
mind with comments by one that was sympathetic, able if not deep, and
genuinely eager, for the moment, to share its enthusiasm.

But the sight of all this helpless though secretly critical womanhood
disposed attentively about him invariably, through association of ideas,
brought to his mind every similar and abortive attempt he had made in
this direction. When he opened the book to read aloud to them, he was
always irritated, with that deep-seated irascibility which has its
foundation in self-discontent, however externals may influence or add to
it.

Whatever Francis Madigan might have been, he was never intended for a
pedagogue. His impatience of stupidity, his irritation at the slow,
stumbling steps of immaturity, not to speak of his lack of judgment in
his selection and his determination to persevere in reading aloud from
the book of his choice, if he had to ram undigested wisdom whole into
the mental stomachs of his offspring--all this would have deterred a
less obstinate man. But Madigan, who had become a bully through wea