Mrs. Brenner stood motionless, with her hand against her trembling lips, her head bent forward for four of the dull intervals between the siren-call. Then there came the sound of steps stumbling around the house. Mrs. Brenner, with her painful hobble, reached the door before the steps paused there, and threw it open. The feeble light fell on the round, vacant face of her son his inevitable pasteboard box, grimy with much handling, clutched close to his big breast, and in it the soft beating and thudding of imprisoned wings. Mrs. Brenner's voice was scarcely more than a whisper, "Tobey!" but it rose shrilly as she cried, "Where you been? What was that scream?" Tobey stumbled past her headlong into the house, muttering, "I'm cold!" She shut the door and followed him to the stove, where he stood shaking himself and beating at his damp clothes with clumsy fingers. "What was that scream?" she asked him tensely. She knotted her rough fingers as she waited for his answer. "I dunno," he grunted sullenly. His thick lower lip shoved itself forward, baby-fashion. "Where you been?" she persisted. As he did not answer she coaxed him, "Aw, come on, Tobey. Tell Ma. Where you been?" "I been catching butterflies," he answered. "I got a big one this time," with an air of triumph. "Where was you when you heard the scream?" she asked him cunningly. He gave a slow shake of his head. "I dunno," he answered in his dull voice. A big shiver shook him. His teeth chattered and he crouched down on his knees before the open oven-door. "I'm cold," he complained. Mrs. Brenner came close to him and laid her hand on his wet, matted hair. "Tobey's a bad boy," she scolded. "You mustn't go out in the wet like this. Your hair's soaked." She got down stiffly on her lame knees. "Sit down," she ordered, "and I'll take off your shoes. They're as wet as a dish-rag." "They're full of water, too," Tobey grumbled as he sprawled on the floor, sticking one big, awkward foot into her lap. "The water in there makes me cold." "You spoil all your pa's shoes that a-way," said Mrs. Brenner, her head bent over her task. "He told you not to go round in the wet with 'em any more. He'll give you a lashing if he comes in and sees your shoes. I'll have to try and get 'em dry before he comes home. Anyways," with a breath of deep relief, "I'm glad it ain't that red clay from the hill. That never comes off." The boy paid no attention to her. He was investigating the contents of his box, poking a fat, dirty forefinger around among its fluttering contents. There was a flash of yellow wings, and with a crow of triumph the boy shut the lid. "The big one's just more than flapping," he chuckled. "I had an awful hard time to catch him. I had to run and run. Look at him, Ma," the boy urged. She shook her head.