He paused and drew a long breath. From one point of view the matter was a small one. From another it was of the exact importance of a little boy's development, for it represented the first fruits of all the hereditary influences that had silently and through the small experiences of babyhood, led him over the edge of the dark, warm nest to this first independent trial of the wings. He pressed the lever gently and took out the card. It was not a very good job of printing; the ink was not quite evenly distributed, the type were so heavily impressed that they showed through the reverse of the card like stamping; _but each letter had evidently received the same amount of pressure!_ Bobby uttered a little chuckle of joy--he had not time for more--and plunged into the rectification of minor errors. And by noon the press was working steadily, though slowly, and a very neat array of _Mr. John Ordes_ was spread out on the window drying. The game was absorbing. Bobby brushed his type with the benzine and toothbrush; distributed it and set up another name--Miss Celia Carleton. He had printed nearly a dozen of these when his mother's voice behind him interrupted his labours. "Robert," said the voice sternly, "what are you doing with that mucilage?" V THE LITTLE GIRL Bobby spent as much time with Celia as he was allowed. On Sunday he took her on his regular excursion to Auntie Kate--and Auntie Kate's cookies. "Aren't you glad there was no Sunday School to-day?" he inquired blithely. "I like Sunday School," stated Celia. Bobby stopped short and looked at her. "Do you like church too?" he demanded. "I love it," she said. "Do you like pollywogs?" "Ugh, No!" "Or stripy snakes?" "They're _horrid!_" "Or forts?" "I don't know." "Or rifles an' revolvers?" "I am afraid of them." "Or dogs?" "I love dogs. I've got one home. His name is Pancho." "What kind is he?" asked Bobby with a vast sigh of relief at finding a common ground. He had been brought to realize yesterday that little girls differ from boys; but for a few dreadful, floundering moments this morning he had feared they might, so to speak, belong to a different race. Afterward he realized that it would not have mattered even if she had not liked dogs. He merely wished to be near her. When he left her he immediately experienced the strongest longing to be again where he could see her, and breathe the deep, intoxicating, delicious, clean influence of her near presence. And yet with her his moments of unalloyed happiness were few and his hours of sheer misery were many. Self-consciousness had never troubled Bobby before; but now in the presence of Gerald's slim elegance and easy, languid manner, he became acutely aware of his own deficiencies. His clothes seemed coarser; his hands and feet were awkward; his body dumpier; his face rounder and more freckled. To him was born a great humility of spirit to match the great longing of it.