go whistling to his room, and sit in the summer
darkness and wait until the time came.

Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His
mother had an old school friend visiting her, and
Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls falling
in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be
shown off and show off. He had to play one little
piece which he had learned upon the piano. He had
to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old
he was, and if he liked to go to school, and how
many teachers he had, and if he loved them, and
if he loved his little mates, and which of them he
loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his
aunt Dorothy, who was the school friend and not his
aunt at all, and would he not like to come and live
with her, because she had not any dear little boy;
and he was obliged to submit to having his curls
twisted around feminine fingers, and to being kissed
and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before
he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist
upon his lips, and free to assert himself.

That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as
having an actual horror of his helpless state of pam-
pered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of the
boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips
and frown of childish brows who stole out of bed,
got into some queer clothes, and crept down the
back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was