The Madigans | Page 5

once,--waiting for her father to be seated.
She was still waiting politely when his eye lighted upon her. "Sit down,
Cecilia!" he roared; "what d' ye want, gaping there?"
Sissy sat down. So holy was she that she did not resent (openly) the
low, delighted giggle Irene gave. She began to be politely attentive to
Dusie, her father's pet canary, though she loathed the spoiled little thing
that hopped about the table helping itself.
Madigan had a way of telling himself, in his rare moments of
introspection, that the tenderness he might have lavished upon a son he
spent upon the male offspring of more fortunate genera than man. The
big Newfoundland and the great cat came to meals regularly. They
shared Madigan's affection with the birds (whose cage, big as a dog's
house, he had himself nailed up against the side of the wall), that broke
into a maddening din of song, excited by the rival clatter of young
Madigans dining.
Protected by this shrill symphony from the sound of his daughters'
voices, Madigan fed his dog, his cat, and his favorite canary, and with
his head upon one hand, in token of his abiding disgust with the human,
daughterful world, ate quickly with the other.
This pose was the signal that freed the feminine Madigan tongue.
Usually they all broke into conversation at once; but on this evening
there seemed to be some agreement which held them mute till Irene
spoke.
"I am glad to see you be so patient with papa, Sissy," she said gently.

His third daughter glanced apprehensively at Madigan. But her father
had retired within his shell, and nothing but a cataclysm could reach
him there.
"Why--" she said, puzzled, "why--I--"
"Promise me that you'll try to stand him," urged Split, joyously.
"And that you'll help me control my temper, and not mock and
aggravate me when I sulk," chanted Kate.
Sissy dropped her knife and fork, and her hands flew to her bosom, not
in wrath, but in terror. The crackling testament was gone!
"Split! You--"
"Try to bear with me, won't you, Sis, even if I am a devil?" grinned
Split.
"And set us a good example, Sissy," piped the twins.
Sissy gasped.
"Be a yittle muvver to Fwank," lisped the baby, prompted by a big
sister.
"And don't steal candy out of my pocket, will you, Cecilia Morgan?"
begged her oldest sister.
"And--"
Sissy sprang into the air, as though lifted bodily by the taunts of these
ungrateful beneficiaries of her good intentions.
"Sit down, you ox!" came in thundering tones from the head of the
table.
When one was called an ox among the Madigans the culprit invariably
subsided, however the epithet might tend to make her sisters rejoice.

But Sissy had borne too much in that one day--always keeping in mind
the perfect sanctity with which she had begun it.
With an inarticulate explanation that was at once a sob, a complaint,
and a trembling defiance, she pushed back her chair and fled to her
room. Here she sobbed in peace and plenty; sobbed till tears became a
luxury to be produced by a conscious effort of the will. It had always
been a grief to Sissy that she could never cry enough. Split, now, could
weep vocally and by the hour, but all too soon for Sissy the wells of her
own sorrow ran dry.
Yet tears had ever a chastening effect upon the third of the Madigans.
In due time she rose, washed her face, and combed back her hair and
braided it in a tight plait that stuck out at an aggressive angle on the
side; unaided she could never get it to depend properly from the middle.
This heightened the feeling of utter peacefulness, of remorse washed
clean, besides putting her upon such a spiritual elevation as enabled her
to meet her world with composure, though bitter experience told her
how long a joke lasted among the Madigans.
She fell upon her knees at last beside her bed. No Madigan of this
generation had been taught to pray, an aggressive skepticism--the
tangent of excessive youthful religiosity--having made the girls' father
an outspoken foe to religious exercise. But to Sissy's emotional,
self-conscious soul the necessity for worded prayer came quick now
and imperative.
"O Lord," she pleaded aloud, "help me to keep 'em all--even Number
10--in spite of Split and the devil. Help--"
She heard the door open behind her.
[Illustration: "The Rest of the Madigans"]
With a bound she was in bed, fully dressed as she was; and pulling the
covers tight up to her neck, she waited, to all intents and purposes fast
asleep.

"You little fool!" said Madigan, with a hint of laughter in his heavy
voice and laying a not ungentle hand on her blazing