"Are you very tired?" she asked. "I have not seen you playing with the
other children."

"Yes'm," he answered. "We've come such a long way. I have to amuse
Robin all the time he's awake, or he'll cry to go back home."

"Where was your home?" she asked kindly. "Tell me about it."

He glanced up at her, and with a child's quick instinct knew that he
had found a friend. The tears that he had been bravely holding back
all the afternoon for Robin's sake could no longer be restrained. He
sat for a minute trying to wink them away. Then he laid his head
wearily down on the window sill and gave way to his grief with great
choking sobs.

She put her arm around him and drew his head down on her shoulder. At
first the caressing touch of her fingers, as they gently stroked his
hair, made the tears flow faster. Then he grew quieter after a while,
and only sobbed at long intervals as he answered her questions.

His name was Steven, he said. He knew nothing of the home to which he
was being taken, nor did he care, if he could only be allowed to stay
with Robin. He told her of the little white cottage in New Jersey,
where they had lived, of the peach-trees that bloomed around the
house, of the beehive in the garden.

He had brooded over the recollection of his lost home so long in
silence that now it somehow comforted him to talk about it to this
sympathetic listener.