So he was very happy until he smelled the beautiful smell again. All at once it crept to him across the room. He recognized it instantly as the same one that had crept out from under the lid of Uncle Larry's box. It was there, in the great, bright room! He slid to his feet and went about tracing it with his little up-tilted nose. It led him across to Her, and then he saw Uncle Larry's roses on Her breast. He uttered the softest little cry of pain--so soft She did not hear it in Her song--and crept back to his seat. He had had his first wound. He was only six, but at six it hurts. It was Uncle Larry's roses She wore on Her dress--then it was roses She liked, not licorice-sticks and golden alleys. Then it was Uncle Larry's roses,--then She must like Uncle Larry. Then--oh, then, She would never like _him!_ Perhaps it was Uncle Larry She had smiled at all the time, across the aisle. Uncle Larry "reached" so far! He wouldn't have to grow. "She b'longs to Uncle Larry, an' I wanted Her to b'long to me. Nobody else does--I wouldn't have needed anybody else to, if She had. All I needed to b'long was Her. I wanted Her! I--I love Her. She isn't Uncle Larry's--she's mine!--She's mine!" The thoughts of the Little Lover surged on turbulently, while the beautiful low song went on. She was singing--She was singing to Uncle Larry. The song wasn't sweet and soft and tender for _him_. It was sweet and soft and tender for Uncle Larry. "I hate Uncle Larry!" cried out the Little Lover, but She did not hear. She was lost in the tender depths of the song. It was very late in the afternoon and a still darkness was creeping into the big, bright room. The Little Lover nestled among the cushions of the sofa, spent with excitement and loss, and that new, dread feeling that made him hate Uncle Larry. He did not know its name, and it was better so. But he knew the pain of it. "Why, Reggie! Why, you poor little man, you're asleep! And I have been sitting there singing all this time! And it grew quite dark, didn't it? Oh, poor little man, poor little man, I had forgotten you were here! I'm glad you can't hear me say it!" Yes, it was better. But he would have like to feel Her cool cheek against his cheek; he would have felt a little relief in his desolate, bitter heart if he could see how gentle Her face was and the beautiful look there was in Her soft eyes. But perhaps--if She was not looking at him--if it was at Uncle Larry-- No, no, Little Lover; it is better to sleep on and not to know. It was Uncle Larry who carried him home, asleep still, and laid him gently on his own little bed. Uncle Larry's bearded face was shining in the dark room like a star. The tumult of joy in the man's heart clamored for utterance. Uncle Larry felt the need of telling some one. So, because he could not help it, he leaned down and shook the Little Lover gently.