They all three laughed. Huggo, busily engaged, took no notice. He found the knife he wanted. Rosalie showed him another. “Huggo, I’m sure that one’s too heavy and clumsy.” The voice of the little boy with the hat on his ears came, “Mummie, I’d rather have this one because you chose it.” Rosalie said to Huggo, “It will weigh down your pocket so.” “This one! This one!” cried Huggo and made a vexed movement with a foot. Rosalie, sitting with Harry before the fire in Harry’s room that night said, “Harry, tell me some more of what you said the other day about the children.” He looked up at her. He clearly was surprised. “You’ve been thinking about it?” “I’ve been with Huggo shopping for him this afternoon and been at little things a little sad. Harry, when you said ‘not like other children’ did you mean not--responsive?” He said intensely, “Rosalie, it is the word. It’s what I meant. I couldn’t get it. I wonder I didn’t. It’s my meaning exactly--not responsive. You’ve noticed it?” “Oh, tell me first.” “Rosalie, it’s sometimes that I’ve gone in to the three of them wanting to be one with them, to be a child with them and invent things and imagine things. Somehow they don’t seem to want it. They don’t--invite it. Your word, they don’t--respond. I want them to open their hearts and let me right inside. Somehow they don’t seem to open their hearts.” She said, “Harry, they’re such mites.” He shook his head. “They’re not mites, old girl. Only Benji. And even Benji--It was different when they were wee things. It’s lately, all this. They don’t seem to understand, Rosalie--to understand what it is I want. That’s the thing that troubles me. It’s an extraordinary thing to say, but it’s been to me sometimes as if I were the child longing to be--what shall I say?--to have arms opened to me, and they were the grown-ups, holding me off, not understanding what it is I want. Not understanding. Rosalie, why don’t they understand?” She had a hand extended to the fire and she was slowly opening and shutting her fingers at the flames. This, coming upon the feeling she had had that afternoon with Huggo, was like a book wherein was analysed that feeling. But, “I am sure they do understand, dear,” she said. “I’m sure it’s fancy.” “I think you’re not sure, Rosalie.” “Oh, yes, I am. If it’s anything it’s just perhaps their way--all children have their ways. What I thought about Huggo this afternoon might perhaps be something what you mean. Harry, if it is, it’s just the little man’s way.” “What was it you thought?”