The amiable giants smiled upon me, and appeared to listen to my confidential chatter with admiration and delight. Out of the gloom of the domestic circle I could be expansive to rashness. Between bites, I told them the tale of my private grievances, and they shook sympathetic heads over my account of Stevie's disappearance in a queer box, and dropped their jaws when I, charmed with the sensation I had made, assured them that I too was so miserable and lonely that I would like to be put in a box and sent to heaven. I would much rather go back to Mamma Cochrane's than anything; but if I could not find her I would like to die like Stevie, unless the policemen would take care of me and let me stay with them always. The inspector was ready to adopt me on the spot; meanwhile, as I was tired and the excitement had worn off, he encouraged me to fall asleep on his knee, which I was nothing loath to do. The rest is a vague memory. Somebody shook me, and I opened my eyes and saw my stepfather smiling at me. I thought I was at home, and rubbed my eyes, and then sat up. But I was still in the inspector's arms--I recognised his black cap and grey beard. My circle of friendly giants had vanished; but on a table beside me were heaped unfinished slices of bread and jam and honey, gingerbread nuts, shrewsbury biscuits, bulls' eyes, brandy balls, sugar-stick, and apples. A couple of policemen stood at the door and grinned in eloquent assurance of continued friendship, and the inspector had not released his comforting clasp of my wearied body. "Papa, I'm so happy here. Don't let us go back any more to Sunday mamma. Let us stay here always with the nice policemen." My stepfather laughed his joyous cordial laugh, and caught me in his arms. He shook hands with the inspector and the policemen, and carried me into a cab. I was still too sleepy and tired to whimper, and we had hardly set off before I was fast asleep on my stepfather's knee. Chapter IX. MY FRIEND MARY ANN. Seven has been described as the age of reason. I am curious to know why, since many of us at fifty can hardly be said to have attained that rare and sublime period. John Stuart Mill, for his misfortune, at seven may have discovered some rudimentary development of sense, but no other child of my acquaintance past or present. But if seven is not marked for me by the dawn of reason, it is important as the start of continuous reminiscence.