AFTER Jimmy had said his prayers and was tucked up in bed, tired but happy, the book of “Vallable Information” under his pillow, Barbara sat for awhile by the open window in the dusk of the April night. The wind had gone down since sunset, and in the stillness she could hear the “peepers,” singing in the distant marshes, and the soft roar of the river, filled to its brim with the melted snows from the hills. Something in the sound of the swollen river and the gleam of a single star, seen dimly between drifting clouds, brought the remembrance of other April nights to Barbara’s mind. Her thoughts went back to the day when her father, then a proud, handsome man in his prime, had brought his new wife to the farm. Her own passionately mourned mother seemed strangely forgotten in the joy of the home-coming and the girl had resented it in the dumb, pathetic fashion of childhood. After a little, though, she had come to love the gentle creature who had won her father’s heart. There followed a few happy years, regretfully remembered through a blur of tears, when the little mother, as Barbara learned to call her, filled the old house to overflowing with sunshine. Then on an April night when the river lifted up its plaintive voice in the stillness that fell after a wild, windy day, Jimmy came, and the little mother went—hastily, as if summoned out of the dark by some voice unheard by the others. Barbara remembered well the night of her going, and of how, with a last effort, she had lifted the tiny baby and placed him in her own strong young arms. “Love—him—dear,” whispered the failing voice. Then she had smiled once, as if with a great content, and was gone. Jimmy’s voice broke sleepily through these bitter-sweet memories. “Barb’ra!” he called, “are you there? I forgot somethin’.” “What did you forget, dear?” asked the girl, going to his bed. “I love you, Barb’ra!” murmured the little boy, snuggling his hand in hers. She stooped to kiss him all warm and sweet with sleep. Then drew the blankets closer about his shoulders. “It was—a—a—letter,” the drowsily-sweet little voice went on. “I—forgot——” “Jimmy,” said Barbara the next morning, as she brushed the child’s yellow hair, “what was it you said last night about a letter?” “Oh, I bringed—no, I brought a letter home to you in my coat pocket, and I forgot to give it to you.” “It isn’t in either of your pockets, dear. I looked there last night. Try and think what you did with it.” The little boy looked troubled. “The man gave it to me, an’ it was blue. An’ he said it was f’om way out west, an’ he asked me who did you know out west; an’ I said I didn’t know; but I’d ask you. I put it in my pocket.” “Perhaps it wasn’t anything important,” Barbara said slowly, “but——” “No, I guess it wasn’t,” agreed Jimmy placidly. “Say, Barb’ra, can I have two popcorn balls to take to school?” “But what do you suppose became of the letter?” persisted Barbara. “Which pocket did you put it in?”