and he and the small boy were leaving to-morrow. thought I'd drop in to bid them good-by." He gently pinched the wide-eyed baby's cheek. "Good-by, little one. Good-by, Lydia."
She rose and gave him her hand. "Good-by, Floyd."
"I don't need to say good-by to you, Stewart? You're going to stay a while?"
"Yes," said Stewart coldly. "I have some work to do for a competition."
"I wish you luck," Floyd answered. "Good-by, Lydia."
After he had passed out, Lydia stood for a moment looking at her husband reproachfully. Then with the baby in her arms she walked up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. He met her look of appeal rather sullenly, more discomfited by it than he would have been by a flash of temper. "Stewart," she said, "ah, Stewart! Be magnanimous!"
She did not wait for him to reply; she patted his shoulder gently with her hand and then left the room.
Stewart's glance fell on a baby's plaything lying on the table beside the sofa—a bright new jumping-jack, collapsed now in helpless dislocation. Stewart picked it up and jerked the strings idly, causing it to dance; he was engaged in this employment when Lydia returned, having given the baby in charge of the nurse. She stood by for a moment, watching the gyrations of the wooden figure.
"Floyd brought it this afternoon," she said presently. "He said he was afraid the baby would be bored by the journey—so he brought this to amuse him."
"Oh," said Stewart. He laid the toy down, and as he did so his eyes fell upon a book, a specially and handsomely bound book, which struck him as unfamiliar. He picked it up; it was a copy of Keats.
"Did Floyd bring this also to keep the baby from being bored on the journey?" he asked.
