But he peered round again at his mother, lying on the sofa. She had lain there, with her eyes shut, ever since he came in. If only she would open her eyes, and would talk. He was bursting with new ideas, and during a whole quarter of an hour he had not spoken one single word. Such a time to wait! Grown-up people were so funny—liking to sleep in the day-time. "He" never wanted to sleep, not even when bed-time came. His nights were too long and his days too short; for there was always such an immense amount of things to be done. He couldn't get through half of them. At the end of the street, round a corner, was a school for small boys, where he went every day, partly for lessons, partly for games and walks with the other boys. So he had plenty of companionship and plenty of fun, and when he came home it was to the dearest of mothers. Jock was devoted to her. Many months earlier she had been ill, and when her husband went to India with his regiment, she could not go with him. She had to stay in England with Jock, and he felt himself to be in charge of her. His father's last words had been—"Take care of your mother, old chap." He really had tried hard, and through the weeks when she was ill, he had been wonderfully good and quiet for such a little fellow. But she was well now, for she often said so, and he felt free to rush up and down stairs, and to leap about the room, and to shout and sing at the top of his voice. Except when, as just now, he found her lying down, and then often, though not always, he would think of his father's words, and would keep still. This was Tuesday, and next day Jock would be eight years old. Last birthday his father was at home, and he well remembered all the fun and romping and laughter. Would it be quite the same this year? He thought not. He could hardly expect that Mummie would tear madly upstairs with him, three steps at a time, or would swing him down again like a sack of corn; or that she would gallop round and round the garden with Jock on her shoulders. No, that would not be possible. He was a spare, slim boy, rather small in make, with curly chestnut hair and eager grey eyes. He glanced round again, and ventured—"Mummie—are you awake?" She stood up in reply, and came to his side. Anybody might have guessed her to be his mother, for she, too, was slim in make, with curly chestnut hair and grey eyes. "Did I wake you up, Mum? Oh, I'm glad you weren't asleep. I've got such heaps of things I want to say. Jane told me you wasn't to be disturbed—not on no account, she said. So I had my tea all alone, and then I painted and painted—ever so long, till I couldn't see. Mummie, shall we have lots of fun to-morrow?" "Won't four boys to tea be enough?" Jock nodded. "It'll be most awf'ly jolly. Only I do want to know what I'm going to have for my birthday presents. I mean—from you and Daddy. Couldn't you just tell me now?"