The Brother-man put out his arms. I remember I looked up in his face then, and he was smiling--and his smile talked the same as his voice. And his face was all full of what he meant. He had one of those Summer faces like Miss Clementina's--just a general liking of the minute and a special liking for all the world. And what he said made me think of Summer, too: "_Mind?_" says he. "Why it's like putting your cap over a butterfly." He took the little fellow in his arms, and it was then that I first sensed how beautiful the Brother-man was--strong and fine and quiet, like he done whatever he done, and said whatever he said, _all over him_, soul and all, and didn't just speak with his muscles, same as some. And the baby, he was beautiful, too, big and fine and healthy and a boy, only not still a minute nor didn't know what quiet meant. But he stopped crying the instant the man took him, and they both looked at each other like--oh, like they were more alike than the years between them wanted to let them think. Isn't it pitiful and isn't it wonderful--when two folks meet? Big or little, nice or horrid, pleasant or cross, famous or ragged or talking or scairt--it don't make any differ'nce. They're just brother-pieces, broke off the same way. That was how the Brother-man looked down at the little chap, and I dunno but that was how the little chap looked up at him. Because the little thing threw out his arms toward him, and we both see the letter under his blanket pinned to his chest. All of a sudden, I understood what had happened--almost without the use of my brain, as you do sometimes. "Sit down a minute," I said to the Brother-man. "I guess mebbe this letter tells where she is." And so it did. It was written in pencil, spelled irregular and addressed uphill, and the direction told the story even before the letter did. "To Anybody," the direction was. And the inside of the letter said: "Take care of my Baby. I ain't fit and never was and now don't think to be anywheres long. Don't look for me. The baby would be best off with anybody but me, and don't think to be anywheres long and so would be orphant quite soon sure. He ain't no name so best not put mine except. MOTHER. P. S. If he puts out his hand he means you should kiss his hand then he won't cry. Don't forget, then he won't cry. P. S. When he can't get to sleep he can get to sleep if you rub the back of his neck." I remember how the Brother-man looked at me when we'd got it spelled out. "Oh," he said--and then he said a name that sounded like somebody calling to its Father from inside the dark. I hate to think of what I said. I said it kind of mechanical and wooden, the way we get to be from shifting the burdens off our own backs where they belong, onto somebody else's back--and doing it second-nature, and as if we were constructed slanting so that burdens could slip off. What I said was: