"Hunt?" said the little boy. "Not--ever you mean?" He looked at Tiger Lily. He looked at the blue pop-gun. "Not ever? Ever? Ever?" Way down in his little fur slippers it was as though a little sigh started and shivered itself up-up-up--up till it reached his smile. It made his smile sort of wobbly. "Oh all right!" he said and ran away as fast as he could to hide the blue pop-gun in the bottom of the closet. A velocipede he piled on top of it and two pillows and a Noah's Ark and a stuffed squirrel. When the piling was all done he looked back at our Uncle Peter. It was across one shoulder that he looked back. It made his little smile look twisty as well as wobbly. One of his eyebrows had crooked itself. "It's--It's SILENCES that I'm afraid of," he said. He grabbed Tiger Lily by the collar again and started for the door. As though he was playing a Game he reached out one finger and tagged everybody as he passed them. Everybody except Carol. When he started to tag Carol he snatched back his finger and screamed instead. "He's a Silence!" he screamed. "He's a Silence!" Still holding tight to Tiger Lily's collar he ran for the stairs. Flop-Flop-Flop his little fur slippers thudded on the hard wood floor. Tick-Tick-Tick Lily's toe-nails clicked along beside him. It sounded cool. And slippery. His Mother wrung her hands. It seemed to be with despair that she wrung them. "Yes that's just it," she despaired. "It's 'Silences' that he's afraid of! That's what keeps him awake all night banging at things! That's what worries him so!" "But he gave up the noisy pop-gun," said our Uncle Peter. "Gave it up of his own accord when he saw that it frightened the dog." "Why so he did!" said the Mother. She seemed very much surprised. "Why so he did!--Why I don't know that I ever knew him to give up anything before. He's been so delicate--and--and the only child and everything--I'm afraid we've spoiled him." "U--m--m," said our Uncle Peter. "And all the circumstances of the case are so bewildering," despaired the lady. Like white pond-lilies floating in a black gloom her sad hands curled in her lap. It seemed to be at our Uncle Peter that they curled. "Are they indeed?" said our Uncle Peter. It was the "circumstances" that he meant. "Very bewildering," said the Lady. Her cheeks got a little pink. She jumped up and went to the door and listened a minute at the head of the stairs. When she came back to her chair she shut the door behind her. "As I told you," she whispered, "the little boy isn't my own little boy." "So I understood," said our Uncle Peter. "His Mother died when he was born," said the Lady. "Very sad indeed," said our Uncle Peter. "Dicky is six years old," said the Lady. "I married his Father a year and a half ago. His Father was killed in an accident a year ago--" "Oh dear--Oh dear," said our Uncle Peter. The Lady began all over again as though it was a lesson.