"Yes, let me hold you up." Mostyn lifted the boy in his arms. "Now, now can you see?" he asked, the words sweeping from him in suddenly released tenderness. "Yes, yes; and they are coming. Let's go to meet them. Will you?" "Yes, and you must let me carry you. You know I used to love to carry my _own_ little boy like this--just like this." The child's arm, already on Mostyn's shoulder, slid closer to his neck till it quite encircled it. The soft, warm hand touched Mostyn's chin. "Mama and papa said I must call you 'Uncle Dick,' but you are not my really, _really_ uncle, are you?" "No, but I want to be. Will you--would you mind giving your old uncle a hug with--with _both_ your arms?" The boy complied. "There, there!" Mostyn said. "Once more--tight--tight! Hug me tight!" The child obeyed. "Oo-ooh!" he cried, as he relaxed his tense pressure. "Thank you--thank you!" Mostyn kissed him; then he was silent. With one hand on Mostyn's cheek the boy leaned forward and peered into his face curiously. "Why--why," he faltered, his little lips puckered sympathetically, "what is the matter?" THE END