t?" David never fails to ask.

"By not shaving his lip."

It is now that David feels of his white lip with the tip of his
red tongue and then stoutly declares:

"I have not shaved _my_ lip."

"It was brown, like your hair," says Mother, "and when it was
about half-grown it began to curl up at the ends. The boys made
fun of it, but it was very beautiful and ever so soft and fine."

"Truly, was it?" asks David, and then something blooms pink in
Mother's cheeks. That is the one interesting thing about her
story, and up to that point he can always stand her narrative very
well; for he is always watching for the pretty pinkness. But when
that is gone, his interest goes too. It seems very ordinary to him
that this young man should have studied mechanics and become a
great engineer and invented things, and made discoveries.

Now, if he had ever been shipwrecked, or if he had ever been
eaten up by bears, or if he had fought Indians, or done some
other notable thing with a scare in it, why, _that_ would be
worth talking about. But why tell so much about a young man who
had done none of these things? Why speak of the way she had
encouraged him and helped him and studied with him? You can see
for yourself that it was a very stupid tale.

It was clever of David, though, to have her tell him the story,
for then she would sometimes forget that her little boy was not
having his siesta. To show her that he was trying to keep up an
interest he would now and then ask a question, as, for example,
when she spoke of the honors the young man had won at college.

"Could he spit through his teeth?" David would inquire, and it
was always a sad thing to him that this was not one of the young
man's accomplishments. A very disappointing chap, to be sure.

"Do you know, my little boy," Mother would say in a strange, soft
voice, "do you know that your eyes are as bright as his eyes used
to be, and that--"

"It's a nice story," David would say courageously, and like as
not, while Mother was still talking about the handsome young man
with the mustache, her little boy would fall fast asleep.

It is good, David, that you do not hear the story that is hid
away in the thinking places; it is good that you do not know the
worn look which sometimes comes into Mother's face and crowds
from it all the pretty pinkness that you love to see. You will
never know that other look which was often in Mother's face
before you came to nestle in her arms a