"Nothing more?" The man standing there squeezed the fat legs hungrily. "Why," said Watts, "you'd surely let me have a little milk"; this camel was becoming a responsibility. Now the desert rider hedged a little. "Well, you see," urged Pudge, "Mother wants me to drink all my milk; you see," he explained, "the more good milk I drink the more good boy I am." "Sure." Watts slid him down to terra firma. "Well, I guess we can fix it up some way. Now about this mother of yours; let's stand down here and call up all sorts of nice names to her and see which one she'll answer, which one will make her come down to us." Together they stood, the tall man with the dark dappled hair and the little shaver in blue linen, shouting such names as occurred to them up to the little garret window. "Lady of Shalot," called Watts; he cast an eye about the sweet summer garden at a seat under a big horse-chestnut, "Lady of Shalot, come down and speak to Pudge's Camel." "Oh, Mrs. Pudge's mother," sang out the little fellow, "come down and see my Watts Shipman." "Blessed Damosel," Watts liked this game; his voice held something whimsically tender. "Dearest Honey-bug," this with a masculine swagger from Pudge. But there was silence; no one appeared at the little window. Could the lawyer have known it Eleanor Ledyard had stopped reading the letters; an instinctive feminine hand went to her hair, then a curious look of restlessness came to her face; she did not, however, go at once to the window, though the calling voice of her little son drew her away from the trunk full of letters. "That doesn't bring her." Watts' voice, purposely raised, held the note of injury. "Why, I don't believe she wants to see us," the lawyer spoke distinctly. "I think she knows I've come around with my tiresome questions. I say, Pudge, you know some people don't care for me the way you do." "But Mother does," came the little voice eagerly. "She has your picture and she tells me long stories about----" A hand must have gone over Pudge's mouth. Up-stairs listening, Eleanor Ledyard felt the slow color burn in her face. "Darling," she whispered softly--"you mustn't." Pudge's mother quailed. Watts, holding the little fat hand, squeezed it; he looked up at the window steadily and something mounted in his throat. He felt the desolate sense of that trunk full of letters, of the woman patiently trying to read and destroy and--forget. "Our names don't seem to mean anything to that mother of yours. Let's try others, let's call her--well--just the dearest ones we know." "I have," said Pudge stoutly. "Mrs. Honey-bug is my dearest; I haven't any more dear names." "Well, I have," said the lawyer decidedly. "I haven't used up mine, not all the dearest ones I could think of, only if I called up some," Watts was eyeing the window, "your mother might scold me." Pudge looked serious, then he clasped anew the hand that held his. "I don't believe she would," encouragingly; "you try it."