cember his brother John had not come home from school.
James had come home and Mark had come home. Ruth had come home, and so also had Sarah. Everybody and everything had come back home except John.
At the precise time that the other children came home, and John didn't, the Reverend Mr. Eaton was in his church setting the altar, as a clerk dresses a window, for a special Friday morning service. Mrs. Eaton had lighted a lamp and was making an elaborate pattern of red and purple cross-stitching upon a large rectangle of coarse hand-woven linen. This was to be a Christmas present for "dearest" grandmother.
At the precise time that John didn't come home and the door opened and the others did, Edward Eaton was going on six years of age. And he was sitting on a stool at Dear Mother's feet, practising self-control. A dozen times a day he would be told to stop whatever he was doing and to keep perfectly still for five or ten minutes. For Mrs. Eaton believed that in this way children are best taught poise and self-control. She began with them when they were nursing. So many minutes' milky indulgement, and then an enforced rest of one minute.
Edward's brothers and sisters came with an
