"Do you know what I ought to do to you in the name of the New
Parenthood?"
"Ah, father!" and his lip trembled.
"You are a disgrace to the eternal spark in you," I said.
He lowered his head and began to cry. It required an effort to be stern,
but I persisted.
"Harold," I said, "you will go into your room and stand in the corner
for ten minutes. Close the door behind you. I will tell you when time is
up."
He dragged himself away heartbroken and I found it was useless trying to
write any more. I had made two people utterly miserable. I threw down my
pen and rose to take a book from the shelf, but stopped in the act. Out
of Harold's room came music. I stole to the door and looked in. He had
not disobeyed orders. He had merely dressed himself in one of the
nurse's aprons and the baby's cap, and standing erect in his corner, he
sang "Dixie," with all the fervour of his fresh young voice.
About his appearance there was nothing sacred.