"How can I be afraid when I have a soldier-man to look out for me? Are you afraid?" No, indeed; David was not afraid. He flopped suddenly back upon the bed, and resolutely turned his face to the wall. Mother need not sit by him. So she went back to her chair and rocked quietly, and thought of a little child who was struggling hard to be more than a little child. Later, as she was preparing to go to bed, she heard the wee, sweet voice of him asking ruefully if she were not--maybe--a little lonesome. "I'm afraid so, dear," she reluctantly admitted. One could see that this made a difference. If she was really lonesome she might now come into the bedroom; she might sit by David; she might even tell him a story if she wanted to. "If you do," he said, "it won't matter to-night. It will help you to get use-ter to having me all grown up." In the trail of soft radiance across the pillow Mother could see how wide open were the eyes of her little boy, but not long after she had drawn a chair to the bedside the drowsy lids began to droop. "If you're real lonesome I'll hold your hand," said David, and he went to sleep still holding her hand. Before he was awake the next day she stood looking at her little boy in the darkness of early morning, and she lighted the gas in order to have a better look at him. According to an unvarying custom, there was one wee fist cuddled under his cheek--a wretched insurgent of a fist that had ever disdained all orders to abide under the coverlet. Often in the night Mother had bowed over the tiny sleeper to press her lips upon the plump, smooth wrist before lifting the pretty arm to tuck it softly away into the quilted warmth of the bed. And during such a time it was her wont to listen, in the fear that is never far away from the heart of motherhood, to know if his breathing was quite regular and sweet. It sometimes happened, when she felt the tickling thrill of his ringlets against her cheek, that she would want to wake him up instantly to ask if he was not a dear. But now had come a time when she felt no impulse to rouse him. The touch of curls upon her cheek she would not feel any more. They were gone, and that baby of hers was gone. When he presently awoke, his greeting was characteristic of his altered condition. He did not call to her, he did not crow with laughter of good feeling and fine health. He merely sat up and solemnly whispered:-- "Trouvers!" Mother assured him that they were not a dream. He could get up now and put them on, for presently he and she would be setting out to see their old friend, Dr. Redfield. Little David did not instantly hop out of bed, as she had supposed he would. Little David sat very still. He looked at Mother and at the floor. Then he suddenly lay down again and turned his face to the wall. "You want to put them on, don't you?" Mother seemed greatly puzzled. She waited, but David did not move. He said nothing. It was as though he had grown suddenly deaf.