He had had no intention of saying things quite like that, and didn’t know that he could; but it sounded all right to Junior. This moment was to be one of those vivid recollections that last through a lifetime. With a final long-drawn sigh of complete and passionate comfort, the small boy looked up into the big man’s face and smiled. “You love me now, don’t you, Father?” he said. “You bet I love you!” The boy had got him at last. But perhaps Junior presumed upon this new privilege. The next morning he awoke with a bad dream about those street boys, and as soon as the nurse permitted he rushed in to be reassured by his big father. Phil was preoccupied with shaving and did not know about the bad dream. Junior tried to climb up Phil’s legs. “That will do,” said his father in imminent peril of cutting his chin; “get down. Get down, I tell you. Oh, Nell!”--she was in the next room--“make your child quit picking on me.” “Come to me, dearest. Mustn’t bother Father when he’s shaving.” Junior wasn’t piqued but he was puzzled. “But I thought he loved me; he told me he loved me,” he called out. “Didn’t you tell me you loved me, Father?” Phil laughed to cover his embarrassment. He had not reckoned on Junior’s giving him away to Nell, and knew that she was triumphing over him now in silence. “Your father never loves anybody before breakfast,” said Junior’s mother, smiling as she covered him with kisses. Apparently fathers could never be like mothers. * * * * * Nell knew it was a risk, but she wanted to be with Phil as much as he wanted to be with her--the old life together they both loved. So they decided that Junior was big enough now to stand the trip to Mongolia. It was a great mistake. Before they had crossed Russia all of them regretted it--except Junior. He was having a grand time. At present he was working his way back from the door of the railway compartment to the window again, and for the third time was stepping upon his father’s feet. Phil had had a bad time with the custom officials, a bad time with the milk boxes and a bad night’s sleep. His temper broke under the strain. “Oh, children are a damn nuisance,” he growled. “Come, dear, look at these funny houses out of the window,” said Junior’s mother. “Aren’t they funny houses?” That night when she was putting him to sleep with the recital of those who loved him, Junior inquired, “Mamma, what is a damn nuisance?” “A damn nuisance,” said his mother, “is a perfect darling.” All the same he had learned that he must avoid stepping on his father’s freshly polished boots. One more item added to the list. Mustn’t touch him with sticky hands, mustn’t play with his pipes, mustn’t make a noise when he takes his nap on the train--so many things to remember, such a small head to keep them all in.