Dawn

"insufficient, uncapacious" man—but that waswhen she was angry or tried with him. She never let any one else saysuch things about him.
Still, dad WAS very different from other dads. Keith had toacknowledge that—to himself. Other boys' dads had offices and storesand shops and factories where they worked, or else they were doctorsor ministers; and there was always money to get things with—thingsthat boys needed; shoes and stockings and new clothes, and candy andbaseball bats and kites and jack-knives.
Dad didn't have anything but a studio, and there never seemed to bemuch money. What there was, was an "annual," Susan said, whatever thatwas. Anyway, whatever it was, it was too small, and not nearly largeenough to cover expenses. Susan had an awful time to get enough to buytheir food with sometimes. She was always telling dad that she'd GOTto have a little to buy eggs or butter or meat with.
And there were her wages—dad was always behind on those. And when thebills came in at the first of the month, it was always awful then: dadworried and frowning and unhappy and apologetic and explaining; Susancross and half-crying. Strange men, not overpleasant-looking, ringingthe doorbell peremptorily. And never a place at all where a boy mightfeel comfortable to stay. Dad was always talking then, especially, howhe was sure he was going to sell THIS picture. But he never sold it.At least, Keith never knew him to. And after a while he would begin anew picture, and be SURE he was going to sell THAT.
But not only was dad different from other boys' dads, but the housewas different. First it was very old, and full of very old furnitureand dishes. Then blinds and windows and locks and doors were alwaysgetting out of order; and they were apt to remain so, for there wasnever any money to fix things with. There was also a mortgage on thehouse. That is, Susan said there was; and by the way she said it, itwould seem to be something not at all attractive or desirable. Justwhat a mortgage was, Keith did not exactly understand; but, for thatmatter, quite probably Susan herself did not. Susan always liked touse big words, and some of them she did not always know the meaningof, dad said.
To-day, in the hallway, Keith stood a hesitant minute before hisfather's door. Then slowly he pushed it open.
"Did you want me, dad?" he asked.
The man at the easel sprang to his feet. He was a tall, slender man,with finely cut features and a pointed, blond beard. Susan had oncedescribed him as "an awfully nice man to take care of, but not worth acent when it comes to takin' care of you." Yet there was everyevidence of loving protection in the arm he threw around his boy justnow.
"Want you? I always want you!" he cried affectionately. "Look! Do youremember that moss we brought home yesterday? Well, I've got its twinnow." Triumphantly he pointed to the lower left-hand corner of thepicture on the easel, where was a carefully blended mass of greens andbrowns.
"Oh, yes, why, so't is." (Keith had long since learned to see in hisfather's pictures what his father saw.) "Say, dad, I wish't you'd tellme about—my little brothers. Won't you, please?"
"And, Keith, look—do you recognize that little path? It's the one wesaw yesterday. I'm going to call this picture 'The Woodland Path'—andI think it's going to be about the very best thing I ever did."
Keith was not surprised that his question had been turned aside:questions that his father did not like to answer were always turnedaside. Usually Keith submitted with what grace he could muster; butto-day he was in a persistent mood that would not be denied.
"Dad, WHY won't you tell me about my brothers? Please, what were theirnames, and how old were they, and why did they die?"
[Illustration: "Want you? I always want you!"]
"God knows why they died—I don't!" The man's arm about the boy'sshoulder tightened convulsively.
"But how old were they?"
"Ned was seven and Jerry was four, and they were the light of my eyes,and—But why do you make me tell you? Isn't it enough, Keith, thatthey went, one after the other, not two days apart? And then the sunwent out and left the world gray and cold and cheerless, for the nextday—your mother went."
"And how about me, dad?"
The man did not seem to have heard. Still with his arm about the boy'sshoulder, he had dropped back into the seat before the easel. His eyesnow were somberly fixed out the window.
"Wasn't I—anywhere, dad?"
With a start the man turned. His arm tightened again. His eyes grewmoist and very tender.
"Anywhere? You're everywhere now, my boy. I'm afraid, at the first,the very first, I didn't like to see you very well, perhaps becauseyou were ALL there was left. Then, little by little, I found you werelooking at me with your mother's eyes, and touching me with thefingers of Ned and Jerry. And now—why, boy, you're everything. You'reNed and Jerry and your mother all in one, my boy, my boy!"
Keith stirred restlessly. A horrible tightness came to his throat, yetthere was a big lump that must be swallowed.
"Er—that—that Woodland Path picture is going to be great, dad,great!" he said then, in a very loud, though slightly husky, voice."Come on, let's—-"
From the hall Susan's voice interrupted, chanting in a high-pitchedsingsong:
     "Dinner's ready, dinner's ready,
      Hurry up, or you'll be late,
      Then you'll sure be cross and heady
      If there's nothin' left to ate."
Keith gave a relieved whoop and bounded toward the door. Never hadSusan's "dinner-bell" been a more welcome sound. Surely, at dinner,his throat would have to loosen up, and that lump could then beswallowed.
More slowly Keith's father rose from his chair.
"How impossible Susan is," he sighed. "I believe she grows worse everyday. Still I suppose I ought to be thankful she's good-natured—whichthat absurd doggerel of hers proves that she is. However, I shouldlike to put a stop to it. I declare, I believe I will put a stop toit, too! I'm going to insist on her announcing her meals in a propermanner.