Some of Billy's Rules and Tests were strenuously objected to on the part of her small son, and the young man did not hesitate to show it. Billy said that it was good for the baby to cry, that it developed his lungs; but William was very sure that it was not good for _him_. Certainly, when the baby did cry, William never could help hovering near the center of disturbance, and he always _had_ to remind Billy that it might be a pin, you know, or some cruel thing that was hurting. As if he, William, a great strong man, could sit calmly by and smoke a pipe, or lie in his comfortable bed and sleep, while that blessed little baby was crying his heart out like that! Of course, if one did not _know_ he was crying--Hence William's anticipation of those quiet, restful nights when he could not know it. Very soon after Billy's arrival at the cottage, Aunt Hannah and Alice Greggory came down for a day's visit. Aunt Hannah had been away from Boston for several weeks, so it was some time since she had seen the baby. “My, but hasn't he grown!” she exclaimed, picking the baby up and stooping to give him a snuggling kiss. The next instant she almost dropped the little fellow, so startling had been Billy's cry. “No, no, wait, Aunt Hannah, please,” Billy was entreating, hurrying to the little corner cupboard. In a moment she was back with a small bottle and a bit of antiseptic cotton. “We always sterilize our lips now before we kiss him--it's so much safer, you know.” Aunt Hannah sat down limply, the baby still in her arms. “Fiddlededee, Billy! What an absurd idea! What have you got in that bottle?” “Why, Aunt Hannah, it's just a little simple listerine,” bridled Billy, “and it isn't absurd at all. It's very sensible. My 'Hygienic Guide for Mothers' says--” “Well, I suppose I may kiss his hand,” interposed Aunt Hannah, just a little curtly, “without subjecting myself to a City Hospital treatment!” Billy laughed shamefacedly, but she still held her ground. “No, you can't--nor even his foot. He might get them in his mouth. Aunt Hannah, why does a baby think that everything, from his own toes to his father's watch fob and the plush balls on a caller's wrist-bag, is made to eat? As if I could sterilize everything, and keep him from getting hold of germs somewhere!” “You'll have to have a germ-proof room for him,” laughed Alice Greggory, playfully snapping her fingers at the baby in Aunt Hannah's lap. Billy turned eagerly. “Oh, did you read about that, too?” she cried. “I thought it was _so_ interesting, and I wondered if I could do it.” Alice stared frankly. “You don't mean to say they actually _have_ such things,” she challenged. “Well, I read about them in a magazine,” asserted Billy, “--how you could have a germ-proof room. They said it was very simple, too. Just pasteurize the air, you know, by heating it to one hundred and ten and one-half degrees Fahrenheit for seventeen and one-half minutes. I remember just the figures.”