of these three had, so far as I
had observed, fallen under the spell of inspection by the infant, but I
noticed that the man--an artisan apparently--who sat next to the woman
had edged away from her, and that the three passengers opposite to me
were huddled towards my end of the compartment.

The child had abstracted its gaze, which was now directed down the aisle
of the carriage, indefinitely focussed on some point outside the window.
It seemed remote, entirely unconcerned with any human being.

I speak of it asexually. I was still uncertain as to its sex. It is true
that all babies look alike to me; but I should have known that this
child was male, the conformation of the skull alone should have told me
that. It was its dress that gave me cause to hesitate. It was dressed
absurdly, not in "long-clothes," but in a long frock that hid its feet
and was bunched about its body.

III

"Er--does it--er--can it--talk?" hesitated the rubicund man, and I grew
hot at his boldness. There seemed to be something disrespectful in
speaking before the child in this impersonal way.

"No, sir, he's never made a sound," replied the woman, twitching and
vibrating. Her heavy, dark eyebrows jerked spasmodically, nervously.

"Never cried?" persisted the interrogator.

"Never once, sir."

"Dumb, eh?" He said it as an aside, half under his breath.

"'E's never spoke, sir."

"Hm!" The man cleared his throat and braced himself with a deliberate
and obvious effort. "Is it--he--not water on the brain--what?"

I felt that a rigour of breathless suspense held every occupant of the
compartment. I wanted, and I know that every other person there wanted,
to say, "Look out! Don't go too far." The child, however, seemed
unconscious of the insult: he still stared out through the window, lost
in profound contemplation.

"No, sir, oh no!" replied the woman. "'E's got more sense than a
ordinary child." She held the infant as if it were some priceless piece
of earthenware, not nursing it as a woman nurses a baby, but balancing
it with supreme attention in her lap.

"How old is he?"

We had been awaiting this question.

"A year and nine munse, sir."

"Ought to have spoken before that, oughtn't he?"

"Never even cried, sir," said the woman. She regarded the child with a
look into which I read something of apprehension. If it were
apprehension it was a feeling that we all shared. But the rubicund man
was magnificent, though, like the lio