She was called to inspect the mouse-cage, which, according to Jimmy, had strawberries in it. “Far back,” he explained. “There in the cotton, Harry.” But it was not strawberries. Harmony opened the cage and very tenderly took out the cotton nest. Eight tiny pink baby mice, clean washed by the mother, lay curled in a heap. It was a stupendous moment. The joy of vicarious parentage was Jimmy's. He named them all immediately and demanded food for them. On Harmony's delicate explanation that this was unnecessary, life took on a new meaning for Jimmy. He watched the mother lest she slight one. His responsibility weighed on him. Also his inquiring mind was very busy. “But how did they get there?” he demanded. “God sent them, just as he sends babies of all sorts.” “Did he send me?” “Of course.” “That's a good one on you, Harry. My father found me in a hollow tree.” “But don't you think God had something to do with it?” Jimmy pondered this. “I suppose,” he reflected, “God sent Daddy to find me so that I would be his little boy. You never happened to see any babies when you were out walking, did you, Harry?” “Not in stumps--but I probably wasn't looking.” Jimmy eyed her with sympathy. “You may some day. Would you like to have one?” “Very much,” said Harmony, and flushed delightfully. Jimmy was disposed to press the matter, to urge immediate maternity on her. “You could lay it here on the bed,” he offered, “and I'd watch it. When they yell you let 'em suck your finger. I knew a woman once that had a baby and she did that. And it could watch Isabella.” Isabella was the mother mouse. “And when I'm better I could take it walking.” “That,” said Harmony gravely, “is mighty fine of you, Jimmy boy. I--I'll think about it.” She never denied Jimmy anything, so now she temporized. “I'll ask Peter.” Harmony had a half-hysterical moment; then: “Wouldn't it be better,” she asked, “to keep anything of that sort a secret? And to surprise Peter?” The boy loved a secret. He played with it in lieu of other occupation. His uncertain future was sown thick with secrets that would never flower into reality. Thus Peter had shamelessly promised him a visit to the circus when he was able to go, Harmony not to be told until the tickets were bought. Anna had similarly promised to send him from America a pitcher's glove and a baseball bat. To this list of futurities he now added Harmony's baby. Harmony brought in her violin and played softly to him, not to disturb the sleeping mice. She sang, too, a verse that the Big Soprano had been fond of and that Jimmy loved. Not much of a voice was Harmony's, but sweet and low and very true, as became her violinist's ear. “Ah, well! For us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes,” she sang, her clear eyes luminous. “And in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!”