ld stay out till six, and then
pretend it was six before it was quite six?"

"No, it was very unfair. I thought--"

"Would it have been a lie if I had said it was quite six?"

"Oh, my son, my son! I shall never tell you a lie again."

"No, mother, please don't."

"My boy, have I done well to-day on the whole?"

Suppose he were unable to say yes.

These are the merest peccadilloes, you may say. Is it then a little
thing to be false to the agreement you signed when you got the boy?
There are mothers who avoid their children in that hour, but this will
not save them. Why is it that so many women are afraid to be left alone
with their thoughts between six and seven? I am not asking this of
you, Mary. I believe that when you close David's door softly there is a
gladness in your eyes, and the awe of one who knows that the God to whom
little boys say their prayers has a face very like their mother's.

I may mention here that David is a stout believer in prayer, and has had
his first fight with another young Christian who challenged him to the
jump and prayed for victory, which David thought was taking an unfair
advantage.

"So Mary is twenty-six! I say, David, she is getting on. Tell her that I
am coming in to kiss her when she is fifty-two."

He told her, and I understand that she pretended to be indignant. When I
pass her in the street now she pouts. Clearly preparing for our meeting.
She has also said, I learn, that I shall not think so much of her when
she is fifty-two, meaning that she will not be so pretty then. So little
does the sex know of beauty. Surely a spirited old lady may be the
prettiest sight in the world. For my part, I confess that it is they,
and not the young ones, who have ever been my undoing. Just as I was
about to fall in love I suddenly found that I preferred the mother.
Indeed, I cannot see a likely young creature without impatiently
considering her chances for, say, fifty-two. Oh, you mysterious girls,
when you are fifty-two we shall find you out; you must come into the
open then. If the mouth has fallen sourly yours the blame: all the
meannesses your youth concealed have been gathering in your face. But
the pretty thoughts and sweet ways and dear, forgotten kindnesses linger
there also, to bloom in your twilight like evening primroses.

Is it not strange that, though I talk thus plainly to David about his
mother, he still seems to think me fond of her? How now, I reflect, what
sort of