re she knew it,
that it would be easier for him. Luckily for his plans, the family
breakfasted early.

Directly after he had risen from the table, Henry attempted to slip
out of the house from the front door without Sylvia's knowledge. He
had nearly reached the gate, and had a sensation of exultation like a
child playing truant, when he heard Sylvia's voice.

"Henry!" she called. "Henry Whitman!"

Henry turned around obediently.

"Where are you going?" asked Sylvia.

She stood under the columns of the front porch, a meagre little
figure of a woman dressed with severe and immaculate cheapness in a
purple calico wrapper, with a checked gingham apron tied in a prim
bow at her back. Her hair was very smooth. She was New England
austerity and conservatism embodied. She was terrifying, although it
would have puzzled anybody to have told why. Certain it was that no
man would have had the temerity to contest her authority as she stood
there. Henry waited near the gate.

"Where are you going?" asked Sylvia again.

"Down street," replied Henry.

"Whereabouts down street?"

Henry said again, with a meek doggedness, "Down street."

"Come here," said Sylvia.

Henry walked slowly towards her, between the rows of box. He was
about three feet away when she spoke again. "Where are you going?"
said she.

"Down street."

Sylvia looked at Henry, and he trembled inwardly. Had she any
suspicion? When she spoke an immense relief overspread him. "I wish
you'd go into the drug store and get me a quarter of a pound of
peppermints," said she.

Then Henry knew that he had the best of it. Sylvia possessed what she
considered an almost guilty weakness for peppermints. She never
bought them herself, or asked him to buy them, without feeling
humiliated. Her austere and dictatorial manner vanished at the moment
she preferred the request for peppermints.

"Of course I'll get them," said Henry, with enthusiasm. He mentally
resolved upon a pound instead of a quarter.

"I don't feel quite right in my stomach, and I think they're good for
me," said Sylvia, still abjectly. Then she turned and went into the
house. Henry started afresh. He felt renewed compunction at his
deceit as he went on. It seemed hard to go against the wishes of that
poor, little, narrow-chested woman who had had so little in life that
a quarter of a pound of peppermints seemed too much for her to desire.

But Henry realized that he had not the courage to tell her