and as he lingered, he was
struck for the ten thousandth time by the amazing mystery of the human
family.

First, there was his mother, a small and exquisite woman with music in
her heart and in the tips of her fingers; his memory of her was dim,
but he knew that she had been the maddest and the merriest of all
possible mothers--a creature of joy and sunshine and the sheer
happiness of existence. And then her sister Mirabelle, who found life
such a serious condition to be in, and loved nothing about it, save
the task of reforming it for other people whether the other people
liked it or not. And finally, her brother John, bald, fat, and
good-natured; a man whose personal interests were bounded by his own
physical comfort, and by his desire to see everyone else equally
comfortable. Whenever Henry thought of this trio, he reflected that
his grandparents must have been very versatile.

He drew a long breath, and glanced up the stairway, as though the
spirit of his Aunt Mirabelle were still haunting him; then, with a
depressing recollection of what she had said about his conscience, and
with hot resentment at what she said about his taste, he walked slowly
into the library.

His uncle John Starkweather, who had been writing at a big desk
between the windows, sprang up to shake hands with him. "Hello, boy!
Thought Bob Standish must have kidnapped you. Have a good party?"

"Fine, thanks," said Henry, but his tone was so subdued and joyless
that his uncle stared at him for a moment, and then went over to close
the door. Standing with his back to it, Mr. Starkweather smiled
reminiscently and a trifle ruefully, and began to peel the band from a
cigar. "What's the matter? Mirabelle say anything to you?"

"Why--nothing special."

His uncle hesitated. "In a good many ways," he said, lowering his
voice, "Mirabelle puts me in mind of my father. When he was a boy,
out in the country, he'd had to smash the ice in the water-pitcher
every mornin', and he was proud of it--thought a boy that hadn't
earned some of his godliness with an ice-pick was a dude. Thought
what was good enough for his father was good enough for _him_, and
sometimes it was _too_ good. Didn't believe in modern improvements
like telephones and easy chairs and three-tined forks; didn't believe
in labour-savin' devices because labour wasn't _meant_ to be saved.
Bible says for us to work six days a week, and if he ever had any
spare time before Sat'day night, he f