"Well—a huff, you know," instructed the wise youth, "is just the kettle boiling over, after it has been heated a long time. I'm afraid it all goes back to my New Year's scrape; but it goes back of that to other sins of mine—and maybe Dorothy's—that father knew about and she didn't; and it goes back of that to the big quarrel between the ancients and the moderns. Father is on the modern side—at least he wants to be. My mother is all for the good old ways. So, you see, there's a fundamental incompatibility."
"Yes," I said, "I understand all that; but tell me about the huff."
Oliver leaned forward and spoke in his sister's ear. She nodded. Then he said:—
"Well, the fact is that he and mother hadn't been hitting it off at all this spring. Dolly and I both noticed it months ago. We were all more or less strung up; and they got on each other's nerves—noticeably. My mother is—well you know how my mother is, ordinarily."
"Yes, I do," I said; "your mother has the most perfect temper in the world. Go on."
"Ordinarily, yes," testified her son; "but when she gets a thing on her mind, or her conscience, or wherever it is, she never lets it rest. She is that
