life in the little house, where the parents, through grudges and
grievances heaped up for years, could hardly exchange the least word,
could hardly even be silent, without a tension in both their faces and
in both their souls; where every detail of domestic life--a piece of
furniture displaced, a door opened or shut--at once led to a discord
which turned the tension into an offence. The very least thing provoked
a bitter word; a reproach flashed out on the instant; resentment was
constantly boiling over. And amid it all was the boy, adored by both
with a mutual jealousy that made their adoration almost morbid, each
hoping simultaneously that the boy would now speak to him or her and
award his caress to her or him; and, if this hope were disappointed, at
once an averted glance, uncontrolled envy, a nervous discomfort that was
almost a physical illness.... And, by a miracle that had become a
forbearing and compassionate grace, the boy, who was still the child of
their love, was only a little older, for all this everlasting discord,
than his actual years; had only grown a little more serious, feeling
himself, at a very early age, to be the mediator; and, now that he was a
couple of years older, now that he was thirteen, accepted this
mediation, almost unconsciously, as an appointed task and a bounden
duty, with only very deep in his childish heart the ache of it all, that
things were so, because he loved both his parents. At table, at both
meals, the child talked and the two parents smiled, though they avoided
each other's glances, though, to each other, their words were cruel and
pitilessly cold. After lunch, it was always:

"Addie, what are you doing this afternoon?"

"I have to work, Mamma."

"Aren't you going out with me?"

"Well, then, at three o'clock, Mamma."

After dinner it was:

"Addie, my boy, what are you doing this evening?"

"I have to work, Papa."

"Aren't you coming for a cycle-ride with me first?"

"For an hour, Papa, that's all."

And it was always as though the parents, almost stupidly, kept the child
from working, happy as long as he sat with him or her, walked with her
or cycled with him. It was so many favours that he granted; and he
granted them not as a spoilt child, but as a man: he divided his
precious time systematically between his work and his father and mother,
conscientiously allotting what was due to each. And Constance would have
a moment of faint, smiling pride, as though in a