e end of her reasoning and settled down. At first it
had not been very satisfactory, but she had gradually, with a child's
optimism, evolved from the dreary little maze a certain degree of
content.

She had only one confidant. The Child had always lived a
rather proscribed, uneventful little life, with pitifully few
intimates,--none of her own age. The Child was eight.

The confidant, oddly, was a picture in the silent, awe-inspiring
company-room. It represented a lady with a beautiful face, and a baby
in her arms. The Child had never heard it called a Madonna, but it
was because of that picture that she was never afraid in the
company-room. Going in and out so often to confide things to the Lady
had bred a familiarity with the silent place that came to amount in
the end to friendliness. The Lady was always there, smiling gently at
the Child, and so the other things did not matter--the silence and
the awe-inspiringness.

The Child told the Lady everything, standing down under the picture
and looking up at it adoringly. She was explaining her conclusions
concerning the Greatest Thing of All now.

"I didn't tell you before," she said. "I wanted to get it reasoned
_out_. If," rather wistfully, "you were a--a flesh-and-bloody lady,
you could tell me if I haven't got it right. But I think I have.

"You see, there are a great many kinds of fathers and mothers, but
I'm only talking of my kind. I'm going to love my father one day and
my mother the next. Like this: my mother Monday, my father Tuesday,
mother Wednesday, father Thursday--right along. Of course you can't
divide seven days even, but I'm going to love them both on Sundays.
Just one day in the week I don't think it will do any harm, do you?--
Oh, you darling Lady, I wish you could shake your head or bow it! I'm
only eight, you see, and eight isn't a very _reasonable_ age. But I
couldn't think of any better way."

The Child's eyes riveted to the beautiful face almost saw it nod a
little.

"I haven't decided 'xactly, but perhaps I shall love my mother Sunday
mornings and my father Sunday afternoons. If--if it seems best to.
I'll let you know." She stopped talking and thought a minute in her
serious little way. She was considering whether to say the next thing
or not. Even to the Lady she had never said why-things about her
father and mother. If the Lady knew--and she had lived so long in the
company-room, it seemed as if she must,--then there was no need of
ex