“No, ma'am.” That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's theological library, had peered at his father's old medical books and his mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform editions of standard things written by women. “I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys,” said Aunt Janet, reflectively. “No, ma'am,” said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as was the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it. “I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John,” said Janet. “I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night, John.” “Good night. Aunt Janet,” replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good night, which was one reason why he liked her. On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood open. She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny. “Are you going to bed?” said she. “Yes, ma'am.” Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he could oblige her. “Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?” asked she. “Yes, ma'am.” “What was the book?” Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she spoke. “Poetry.” Cora laughed. “Poetry is odd for a boy,” said she. “You should have read a book of travels or history. Good night, Johnny.” “Good night, mother.” Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up from his study. But his father did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, having imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had ever known during much longer lives than his. Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling nearly led him astray in the matter of Lily Jennings; he thought of her, for one sentimental minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover, she was a girl, and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of another boy who would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy. He wished for a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin Hood's. But he could think of nobody, after considerable study, except one boy, younger than himself. He was a beautiful little boy, whose mother had never allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although he had been in trousers for quite a while. However, the trousers were foolish, being knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold Carruth, and that was against him, as being long, and his mother firm about allowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in the very exclusive private school which Johnny attended.