bliged to swallow that.
They spoke of him simply and spontaneously, taking "papa Lacon" as a
matter of course. They varied the appellation now and then by calling
him "our other papa."

It had been intimated to him, not long after the second marriage, that
he might see the children with reasonable frequency, through the good
offices of Mr. and Mrs. Bland. He soon saw that the arrangements were
really in charge of Lily Bland, who brought the children to her house,
and took them home again. Chip saw them in the library.

The first meeting was embarrassing. Tom was nearly eight, and Chippie on
the way to six. They entered the library together, dressed alike in
blouses and knickerbockers, their caps in their hands. They approached
slowly to where he had taken up a position he tried to make nonchalant,
standing on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him. He felt curiously
culpable before them, like a convict being visited by his friends in
jail. He felt childish, too, as though they were older than, and
superior to, himself. The childishness was shown in his standing on his
guard, determined not to be the first to make the advances. He wouldn't
be even the first to speak.

They came forward slowly, with an air judicial and detached. Tom's eyes
observed him more closely than his brother's, who looked about the room.
Tom, as the elder, seemed to feel the responsibility of the meeting to
be on his shoulders. He came to a halt, on reaching the end of the
library table, Chippie by his side.

"Hello, papa."

"Hello, Tom."

Encouraged by this exchange of greetings, Chippie also spoke up. "Hello,
papa."

"Hello, Chippie."

There followed a few seconds during which the interview threatened to
hang fire there, when the protest in Chip's hot heart--which was
essentially paternal--broke out almost angrily:

"Aren't you going to kiss me?"

It was Tom who pointed out the unreasonableness of emotion in making
this demand. His brows went up in an expression of surprise, which
hinted at protest on his own part. "Well, you're not sitting down."

Of course! It was obviously impossible for two little mites to kiss a
man of that height at that distance. Chip dropped into an arm-chair,
waiting jealously for the two dutiful little pecks that might pass as
spontaneous, and then throwing his big arms about his young ones in a
desperate embrace. After that the ice was broken, and, with the aid of
the games and the picture-books provid