pon the pillow.

For the first time in many months he forgot to make a little
smacky sound with his lips as a suggestion to Mother that she
might have a kiss. Evidently such a matter was now of no
importance, nor did he hold out his arms to her. All such
childish ways as that had been put aside, and perhaps that is why
a wistful look came into Mother's face.

After she had left David in the big, dark room, she took up some
dull-blue linen from her sewing-table. Only a short while ago she
had been stitching upon this apparel for her baby--a foolish
little dress, all edged about with a narrow lace braid.

Mother sat down by the shaded lamp and slipped a finger into her
thimble. But her needle, which in the afternoon had glanced and
glinted swiftly, as the dainty braid was being fastened into
place, somehow refused to do its work. The little blue suit fell
from her hands; the thimble rolled across the floor.

Hers was the bereavement which comes to every mother. It comes
upon her suddenly, leaving her surprised, wondering, and full of
foolish little fears that in the boyhood of her boy she may not
hold so big a place as was given her to hold through all his
babyhood.

Where was the child of yesterday? Who had stolen from Mother and
her little boy the elfin charm and the sweet wonderland which,
for so long a time, had been his and hers together? Gone, as it
must always go, when the little one of to-day goes speeding on
and still on into the dust and weary prose of the hurrying
years.

CHAPTER XII

LIGHT

Leaving Mrs. Wilson, a neighbor and friend, in care of the house
while David slept, Miss Eastman set out for Dr. Redfield's
office. In her face was determination; in her hand a broken
miniature. The gentleman was to be called upon to explain, if he
could, why he had given that picture to her little boy.

"I have been his mother now for four years," she meant to tell
the Doctor. "I have tried to be a good mother; I have tried my
best. Why, then, should you even suggest to him that I am not
really his mother? If you have done that I must tell you that I
do not think it just. And, besides, I must ask you to make no
further additions to his wardrobe without first consulting me. He
does not look like my little boy any more. You have cut off his
curls. You said nothing to me about it; you merely cut them off.
I did not want you to do that. I would not have consented to it,
and I should like you to understan