He had not noticed that Stephen had stopped turning the egg-beater and was now looking up hard into his face, until the little voice asked, “What will you hate to have me going to ’chool for?” Lester had to think for a moment before he could remember what he had said. Then, “Great Scott, Stevie, why wouldn’t I? I’ll _miss_ you--what do you think? I’ll be lonesome without my funny, nice, little boy to keep me company.” He wondered what made Stephen ask such a question. The child usually was quick enough to catch your meaning. He wheeled himself into the pantry and did not see that Stephen, after standing for a moment, turned away and went quietly out of the room. When he came back and found him gone, Lester thought that probably he had gone upstairs to look for another toy. * * * * * Stephen felt very queer inside, sort of shaky and trembly. He had never felt like that before. And the queerness went all over him so that he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t making up a queer face that Father would ask him about. The first thing to do was to get away where nobody would see him. He turned away, trying to pretend to walk carelessly and went into the empty dining-room. But it didn’t stop. He could feel it, making him tremble and shake inside. And yet he didn’t feel sick--oh, no! It was a strange good feeling that was almost too much for him. It was too big for him. He was too little to hold it. It seemed to overflow him, so that he could scarcely breathe, in a bright, warm, shining flood. And Stephen was such a little boy! He had never felt anything like it before. It frightened him and yet he loved it. He must get off somewhere by himself where he would be safe--and alone--with the new, strange, bright, drowning feeling. Under the stairs--always his refuge--he crept in on his hands and knees, not noticing the dust which flew up in his face as he crept. Those corners were not clean as they had been when Mother kept the house, but Stephen thought of nothing but that now the quivering was all over him, even his face ... the way it was when he was going to cry. He and his new feeling crept farther and farther in, as far as he could go. He sat down then, cross-legged, his face turned towards the safe, blind wall. He was safe. He was all alone. It was dark. He said to himself so low that there was no sound, “Father will miss me when I go to school.” Then, lower still, “Father likes to have me around.” And suddenly Stephen’s eyes overflowed and his cheeks were wet, and hot drops fell down on his dusty hands. But he was not crying. He knew that. It hurt to cry. And this did not hurt. It helped. The water ran quietly out of his eyes and poured down his cheeks. It was as though something that had ached inside him so long that he had almost forgotten about it were melting and running away. He could feel it hurting less and less as the tears fell on his hands. It was as though he were being emptied of that ache.