ell me--what did the letter say?"

"Oh, Mother, Mother, maybe I won't get my job back at all! I honestly
don't know what we can do."

Running to her, he hid his face in her lap--he, the head of the family,
the imperturbable adventurer, changed to a child. And Mother, she who
had always looked to him for inspiration, was indeed the mother now. She
stroked his cheek, she cried, "Never mind--'course you'll get it back,
or a better one!" She made fun of his tousled hair till she had him
ruefully smiling. Her voice had a crisp briskness which it had lacked in
the days when she had brooded in the flat and waited for her man.

Father could not face another indefinite period of such inactivity as
had been sapping him all summer. He longed for the dusty drudgery of
Pilkings & Son's; longed to be busy all day, and to bring home news--and
money--to Mother at night.

Aside from his personal desires, what were they going to do? They had
left, in actual money, less than fifty dollars.

Father did not become querulous, but day by day he became more dependent
on Mother's cheer as October opened, as chilly rains began to shut them
in the house. When she was not busy, and he was not cutting wood or
forlornly pecking away at useless cleanings of the cold and empty
tea-room, they talked of what they would do. Father had wild plans of
dashing down to New York, of seeing young Pilkings, of getting work in
some other shoe-store. But he knew very little about other stores. He
was not so much a shoe-clerk as a Pilkings clerk. It had been as
important a part of his duties, these many years, to know what to say to
Mr. Pilkings as to know what to show to customers. Surely when Pilkings,
senior, was well he would remember his offer to keep the job open.

Mother cautiously began to suggest her plan. She spoke fondly of their
daughter Lulu, of their grandson Harry, of how estimable and upright a
citizen was their son-in-law, Mr. Harris Hartwig of Saserkopee, New
York. As Father knew none of these suggestions to have any factual basis
whatever his clear little mind was bored by them. Then, after a stormy
evening when the fire was warm and they had cheered up enough to play
cribbage, Mother suddenly plumped out her plan--to go to Saserkopee and
live with daughter till something turned up.

Father shrank. He crouched in his chair, a wizened, frightened, unhappy,
oldish man. "No, no, no, no!" he cried. "She is a good girl, but she
would badger us