With a little cry he stumbled backward into the lighted hall. There was a slip, and the sound of a soft little body bounding down the polished stairs. A good while afterwards Bobby opened his eyes wonderingly. There seemed to be people near him, but he could not see them at all distinctly. A faint, wonderful perfume crept to him. "It's very dark, isn't it?" he said, in surprise. "I can smell a beautiful smell, but I can't see it. Why, why! It isn't you, is it?--not my mother? Why, I wasn't 'specting to find-- Oh, I morember it now--I morember it all! Then I'm glad it's dark. I shouldn't want it to be as light as _that_ again. Oh no! oh no! I shouldn't want her to see-- Why, she's crying! What is she crying for?" He put out a small weak hand and groped towards the sound of bitter sobbing. Instinctively he knew it was she. "I'm very sorry. I guess I know what the matter is. It's me, and I'm very sorry. I never knew it before; no, I never. I'm glad it's dark now--aren't you?--'count o' that. Only I'm a little speck sorry it isn't light enough for you to see my legs. They're very straight ones--you can ask Olga. You might feel of 'em if you thought 'twould help any to. P'r'aps it might make you feel a very little--just a _very_ little--better to. They're cert'nly very straight ones. But then of course they aren't like a--like a--a _face_. They're only legs. But they're the best I can do." He ended wearily, with a sigh of pain. The bitter sobbing kept on, and seemed to trouble him. Then a new idea occurred to him, and he made a painful effort to turn on his pillow and to speak brightly. "I didn't think of that-- P'r'aps you think I'm feeling bad 'count o' the U in the middle o' my name. Is that what makes you cry? Why, you needn't. _That's_ all right! After--after I looked in _there_, of course I knew 'bout how it was. I wish you wouldn't cry. It joggles my--my heart." But it was his little broken body that it joggled. The mother found it out, and stopped sobbing by a mighty effort. She drew very close to Bobby in the dark that was light to every one else, and laid her wet cheek against the little, scarred, red face. The motion was so gentle that it scarcely stirred the yellow tendrils of his soft hair. An infinite tenderness was born out of her anguish. There was left her a merciful moment to be a mother in. Bobby forgot his pain in the bliss of it. "Why, why, this is very nice!" he murmured, happily. "I never knew it would be as nice as this--I never knew! But I'm glad it's dark,--aren't you? I'd rather it would--be----dark." And then it grew altogether dark for Bobby, and the little face against the new-born, heart-broken mother's cheek felt cold, and would not warm with all her passionate kisses. Chapter V The Little Girl Who Should Have Been a Boy