"'That's a nice game,' says Christopher, bright. 'What game is that?' "'I donno,' I says. 'Game of Life, I guess.' "He liked the sound; and he set there--little waif, full of no supper, saying it over like a chant:-- "'Game o' life--game o' life--game o' l-i-f-e--' "Just at that minute I was turning his little pockets wrong side out to dry them, and in one of them I see a piece of paper, all crumpled up and wrinkled. I spread it out, and I see it had writing on. And I held it up to the light and read it, read it through twice. "'Christopher,' I says then, 'where did you get this piece of paper? It was in your pocket.' "He looked at it, blank, and then he remembered. "'My daddy,' he says. 'My daddy told me to give it to folks. I forgot.' "'To folks?' I says. 'To what folks?' "'To whoever ask' me anything,' he answers. 'Is it a letter?' he ask'. "'Yes,' I says, thoughtful, 'it's a letter.' "'To tell me what to do?' he ask' me. "'Yes,' I says, 'but more, I guess, to tell us what to do.' "I talked with him a little longer, so's to get his mind off the paper; and then I told him to set still a minute, and I slipped out to where the rest was. "The pantry had a close, spicey, foody smell of a pantry at night, when every tin chest and glass jar may be full up with nice things to eat that you'd forgot about--cocoanut and citron and cinnamon bark. In grown-up folks one of the things that is the last to grow up is the things a pantry in the evening promises. You may get over really liking raisins and sweet chocolate; you may get to wanting to eat in the evening things that you didn't use' to even know the names of and don't know them now, and yet it never gets over being nice and eventive to go out in somebody's pantry at night, especially a pantry that ain't your own.