The gate clicked behind you, Father in the middle and you and Lizbeth holding each a hand, and keeping step with him when you could, running a little now and then to catch up again. Your steps were always longest on Sunday when you walked with Father, and even Lizbeth knew you then for a little man, and peeked around Father’s legs to see you as you strode along. Father was proud of you, too, though he did not tell you. He just told other people when he thought you could not hear. "Little pitchers have big ears," Mother would warn him then, but you heard quite plainly out of one ear, and it was small at that. Everybody looked as you three went down the shady street together, and the nice young ladies gave you smiles and the nice old ladies gave you flowers, handing them out to you over their garden walls. "Thank you. My name is Harry," you said. "And I’m Lizbeth," said little sister. And as you passed on your stride grew longer and your voice sank bigger and deeper in your throat, like Father’s. But it wasn’t the town you liked best to walk in with Father in the long, warm Sunday afternoons. It was the river-side, where the willows drooped over the running waters, and the grass was deepest and greenest and waved in the sun. On the meadow-bank at the water’s silver edge you sat down together. "Who can hear the most?" asked Father. You listened. "I hear the river running over the log," you said, softly. "And the birds," whispered Lizbeth. "And the wind in the willows," said Father. "And the cow-bells tinkling way, way off," you added, breathlessly. "Oh, and I hear the grass whispering," said Lizbeth. "And oh, a bee," you cried. "And something else," said Father. You held your breath and listened. From the distant village the wind blew you faintly the sound of— "Church-bells," cried you and Lizbeth together. You fell to playing in the long grass. Lizbeth gathered daisies for Mother. You lay with your face just over the river-bank, humming a little song and gazing down into the mirror of the waters. You wondered how it would feel to be a little boy-fish, darting in and out among the river grasses. By-and-by you went back to Father and sat beside him with your cheek against his arm. "Father." "Yes." "What do you think when you don’t say anything, but just look?" [Illustration: "’FATHER, WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU DON’T SAY ANYTHING, BUT JUST LOOK?’"] "When I just look?" "Yes. Do you think what I do?" "Well, what do you think?" "Why, I think I’d like to be a big man like you and wear a long coat, and take my little boy and girl out walking. Did you think that, Father?" "No. I was thinking how nice it would be just to be a little boy again like you and go out walking by the river with my father." "Oh, Father, how funny! I wanted to be you and you wanted to be me. I guess people always want to be somebody else when they just look and don’t say anything." "What makes you think that, my boy?"