Checking an exclamation of horror father started forward, to meet Richard’s cheerful, frank gaze and the request, as he dug away persistently, to “Please wait one minute more, dranpa.  I’ve got the heart all done, that big floppy piece is lungs, an’ I’ve most made the liver.  Not the good kind that goes wif curly bacon, but a nasty one like what we wear inside.”

Then spying a medical chart with coloured pictures that was propped up against the wood box, father found the clew, and comprehended that Richard was giving himself a practical lesson in anatomy by trying to carve these organs from a huge mangel wurzel beet that he had rolled in from the root cellar.  Did father scold him for mess-making, or laugh at his attempt that had little shape except in his own baby brain?

No, neither; he carefully closed the door against Martha’s possible entrance, seriously and respectfully put the precious objects on a plate, to which he gave a place of honour on the mantel shelf, and after removing as far as possible all traces of beet from face and hands in his sacred office lavatory, he took Richard with him into the depths of the great chair and told the happy child his favourite rigmarole, all about the “three gentlemen of high degree,” who do our housework for us.  How the lungs, who are Siamese twins, called to the heart to pump them up some blood to air, because they were almost out of work, and how the big lazy liver lay on one side and groaned because he had drunk too much coffee for breakfast, and had a headache,—­until Richard really felt that he had achieved something.  So the first thing this morning he set about making a snow man, that he might put the beet vitals in their proper places, nearly convulsing father by their location.  Though, as he told me, they were accurate, compared to the ideas of many trained nurses with whom he had come in contact.

But where was Ian during the beet carving?  Father quite forgot him until, Richard falling asleep in his arms, he arose to tuck him up on the sofa.  A sound of the slow turning of large pages guided him to the corner by the bay window where some bookcases, standing back to back, made a sort of alcove.  There was Ian, flat upon his stomach, while before him the “Wandering Jew” legend, with the Dore pictures, lay open at the final scene—­The Last Judgment—­where the Jew, his journey over, looks up at the angels coming to greet him, while little devils pull vainly at his tattered boots.  It was not the Jew or the angels, however, that held Ian’s attention, and whose outlines he was tracing with his forefinger, but the devils, one big fellow with cows’ horns and wings drooping like those of a moulting crow, and a bevy of imps with young horns and curly tails who were pulling a half-buried body toward the fiery pit by its hair.