When she arrived, some three weeks after this event, Sally found a little fair-haired boy with sad blue eyes whom at night, in the room next to hers, she sometimes heard crying. She had mentioned this to her mother. "Oh, take no notice of it, Sally," she said. "It's probably a noise he makes in his sleep." Sally had become a welcome addition to the household. She had offered to pay liberally for her board while she stayed there and, during that visit, however long it should prove to be, they had been able to dispense with the services of Miss Hatch, the music-mistress, who came regularly every morning from ten till twelve and was a considerable drain on the net profits of the establishment. Sally, unconscious of the change, filled her place. From a quarter-past ten, until half-past, her pupil was Maurice, and on the day she had spoken to her mother about his crying, she also questioned him. "I wasn't crying," he said proudly. "I couldn't cry." He found it easy to say that in the bright light of the morning. But it was a different matter at night. That very night again he wept. She could hear his sobs stifled in the pillow. She was going to bed. When the sound reached her ears, she stopped, listening. It _was_ crying! She opened her door gently. Certainly it was the sound of crying! Then, half-undressed, not thinking to cover her shoulders, she crept across the passage to his door, opened it and peered inside. "Maurie," she whispered. The crying stopped. "Maurie," she repeated, "you are crying." He admitted it--sadly; they had found him out. Now they would think he was a baby. That was the inevitable accusation in the mind of these people who were grown up--in the mind of every one, except his mother. "But I'm not a baby!" he exclaimed. Sally knelt down by the side of his bed. "Who said you were a baby?" she whispered. "You were just going to." "No, I wasn't. I don't think you are a baby. I cry sometimes." "Do you?" There was a thin note of amazement in his voice. "What do you cry for?" "Oh, lots of things. What do you?" "For mummy--it's so cold in bed without mummy." "Do you sleep with mummy, then?" she asked, and she slid a warm arm around his sturdy little neck. "Yes--always. Mummy's so warm and she lies so tight. Your arm's warm--I like your arm." He felt it with his fingers. "What's that?" he asked suddenly. "What's what?" said Sally. "Something wet fell on the back of my hand. Why, it's you--it's you. You're crying. Aren't you? You're crying. Oh, I wonder if you're a baby. I don't see why you should be, if you don't think I am. Why are you crying?" "I don't know." "Oh, but you must know! I always know why I'm crying. I cry at nights when it's all dark, and you can't hear anything. I cry then because I want mummy. Mummy cries sometimes though, and she doesn't know why." "Do you ask her, then?"