Should he pick some for the table, or should he leave them there? While he was wondering about this, the problem was settled for him by someone else—as it so often is. He came home late one afternoon, and going round the house to see what everything looked like he was horrified. All but two of the daffodils had been picked. Not only that, two or three of their bright yellow heads, pulled off short from the stalks, lay fading on the ground. Evidently, in spite of all he had said, the children had been at work. He was greatly upset.
He almost rushed indoors to make an uproar, but he paused to consider what was best to do. In the bathroom upstairs he could hear Helen and Blythe cackling gaily as they took their bath; and he knew that Louise, who was a quick undresser, would be already in bed reading Sparrow the Tramp or some other favourite book. It seemed a pity to break in upon the cheerful bedtime with a scolding. Daffodils are important, but children are important too. He lit his pipe and walked round the house to think.
The next day was Saturday, and after breakfast he called the children into his den.
"It's a very queer thing," he said. "Perhaps it's some kind of magic; but I was looking at the
