father's bed, rocking with silent laughter as the bed rocked under him. He tried not to look at his father, for, when he saw his father's face, distorted and purple with his paroxysms of laughter, lying on the white pillow like the mask of some faun, he had to make agonized clutches at his stomach and, bent double, to try to laugh outright; and he couldn't, he couldn't.
"Doesn't it . . . doesn't it . . . strike you as funny?" asked Van der Welcke, hearing no sound of laughter from his son.
And he looked at Addie and, suddenly remembering that Addie could never roar with laughter out loud, he became still merrier at the sight of his poor boy's silent throes, his noiseless stomach-laugh, until his own laughter rang through the room, echoing back from the walls, filling the whole room with loud Homeric mirth.
"Oh, Father, stop!" said Addie at last, a little relieved by his internal paroxysms, the tears streaming in wet streaks down his face.
And he heaved a sigh of despair that he could not laugh like his father.
"Give me a pencil and paper," said Van der Welcke, "and I'll draw you my dream."
But Addie was very severe and shocked:
"No, Father, that won't do! That'll never do. . . . it'd be a vulgar drawing!"
And his son's chaste seriousness worked to such
