Underneath that gentleness, the harried self of William was no longer debating a desperate resolve, but had fixed upon it, and on the following afternoon Jane chanced to be a witness of some resultant actions. She came to her mother with an account of them. “Mamma, what you s’pose Willie wants of those two ole market baskets that were down cellar?” “Why, Jane?” “Well, he carried ’em in his room, an’ then he saw me lookin’, an’ he said ‘G’way from here!’ an’ shut the door. He looks so funny! What’s he want of those ole baskets, mamma?” “I don’t know. Perhaps he doesn’t even know himself, Jane.” But William did know, definitely. He had set the baskets upon chairs, and now, with pale determination, he was proceeding to fill them. When his task was completed the two baskets contained, between them: One heavy-weight winter suit of clothes. One light-weight summer suit of clothes. Two pairs of white flannel trousers. Two Madras negligée shirts. Two flannel shirts. Two silk shirts. Seven soft collars. Three silk neckties. One crocheted tie. Eight pairs of socks. One pair of patent-leather shoes. One overcoat. Some underwear. One two-foot shelf of books, consisting of several sterling works upon mathematics, in a damaged condition; five of Shakespeare’s plays, expurgated and edited for schools and colleges, and also damaged; a work upon political economy and another upon the science of physics; “Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary,” “How to Enter a Drawing-Room and 500 Other Hints,” “Witty Sayings From Here and There,” “Lorna Doone,” “Quentin Durward,” “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” a very old copy of “Moths,” and a small Bible. William spread handkerchiefs upon the two overbulging cargoes, that their nature might not be disclosed to the curious, and, after listening a moment at his door, took the baskets, one upon each arm, then went quickly down the stairs and out of the house, out of the yard, and into the alley--by which route he had modestly chosen to travel. ... After an absence of about two hours, he returned empty-handed and anxious. “Mother, I want to speak to you,” he said, addressing Mrs. Baxter in a voice which clearly proved the strain of these racking days. “I want to speak to you about something important.” “Yes, Willie?” “Please send Jane away. I can’t talk about important things with a child in the room.” Jane naturally wished to stay, since he was going to say something important. “Mamma, do I _haf_ to go?” “Just a few minutes, dear.” Jane walked submissively out of the door, leaving it open behind her. Then, having gone about six feet farther, she halted, and, preserving a breathless silence, consoled herself for her banishment by listening to what was said, hearing it all as satisfactorily as if she had remained in the room. Quiet, thoughtful children, like Jane, avail themselves of these little pleasures oftener than is suspected.