felt suddenly lonely and unhappy.

"Little pet--ug--la--la--goo--losh!" Henry Fitzgeorge raised his eyes.
His Friend was a long, long way away; his eyes grew cold with contempt.
He hated this thing that made the noises and closed out the light. He
opened his eyes, he was about to burst into one of his most abandoned
roars when his stare encountered his mother. Her eyes were watching him,
and they had in them a glow and radiance that gave him a warm feeling of
companionship. "I know," they seemed to say, "what you are thinking of.
I agree with all that you are feeling about her. Only don't cry, she
really isn't worth it." His mouth slowly closed then to thank her for
her assistance, he raised the rattle and shook it at her. His eyes never
left her face.

"Little darling," said the lady friend, but nevertheless disappointed.
"Lift him up, Jane. I'd like to see him in your arms."

But she shook her head. She moved away from the cot. Something so
precious had been in that smile of her son's that she would not risk any
rebuff.

Henry Fitzgeorge gave the strange lady one last look of disgust.

"If that comes again I'll bite it," he said to his Friend.

When these visitors had departed, he lay there remembering those eyes
that had looked into his. All that day he remembered them, and it may be
that his Friend, as he watched, sighed because the time for launching
him had now come, that one more soul had passed from his sheltering arms
out into the highroad of fine adventures. How easily they forget! How