Miss Eastman, for her part, was honestly grateful to Mrs. Wilson for having remained with David during the early part of the evening, but now Mrs. Wilson could go home and come again another day. Miss Eastman did not say that; of course not! What she did say was, "_Must_ you go?" Mrs. Wilson saw she must. This, however, did not prevent her from apologizing for her departure, and on the door-step still another important subject was to be considered: the kindness of Mrs. Wilson in staying with David. Mrs. Wilson averred that such trifles were not to be spoken of. It was nothing at all. It had been no trouble, indeed it had not; it had been a pleasure. Mrs. Wilson said she believed in being neighborly. Finally, when the merits of being neighborly had been exhaustively commented upon, the women again made preparation to bid each other good-evening. "Come over and see us." "Yes, thank you, I shall." "Come over any time." "Yes, I shall, thank you, and _you_ come over. Don't wait for me. I hardly go any place." Mrs. Wilson was moving her broad and well-intentioned person sidewise down the porch steps, which still shone wet in the broad white light of the moon, already looking serenely out through the changeful interstices of the breaking storm clouds. Miss Eastman watched her safely to the bottom step, but I regret to say that she went into the house even before her neighbor had disappeared down the glistening front walk. Alone at last! She sighed with relief, and in the darkness of the silent house she stole to the door of David's room that she might listen there with some slight motherly apprehension, and then peep in at the little white figure on the bed, where the moonlight lay asleep. Behold David, not greatly changed in looks. The cutting away of his curls did not make such a difference in him as Mother had supposed. He was as charming to her; he was as much her own little boy as though no meddlesome hands had even been laid upon him. In size he was quite the same, and, as Mother stood peering in at him, she presently heard a small, far-away voice. In it was the whispered awe of a child who feels the bigness of the night about him and the strangeness of silvery moonbeams on his face. "Mother!" The queerness of everything was so very big that the little boy's voice almost got lost in it. "Yes, David, Mother is here." "Are you coming to bed?" "Do you want me to come?" "I got trouvers," he said. But there was no pride in this announcement; there was a touch of disappointment. For how is it possible to have trouvers and at the same time to call babyishly for your mother? "Yes, David, you have them." A pause. The little boy was sitting up, with a bare foot held meditatively in his hand. A wee, forlorn figure of a child he was, who seemed to be listening to the silence of the room. And by and by he was asking dispiritedly:-- "You aren't--you aren't afraid, are you, Mother?"