He did not, of course, realise that as, very slowly, very gradually he began to understand the terms and conditions of his new life, so with the same gradation, his Friend was expressed in those terms.  Slowly that great shadow filled the room, took on human shape, until at last it would be only thus that he would appear.  But Henry would not realise the change, soon he would not know that it had ever been otherwise.  Dimly, out of chaos, the world was being made for him.  There a square of colour, here something round and hard that was cool to touch, now a gleaming rod that ran high into the air, now a shape very soft and warm against which it was pleasant to lean.  The clouds, the sweep of dim colour, the vast horizons of that other world yielded, day by day, to little concrete things—­a patch of carpet, the leg of a chair, the shadow of the fire, clouds beyond the window, buttons on some one’s clothes, the rails of his cot.  Then there were voices, the touch of hands, some one’s soft hair, some one who sang little songs to him.

He woke early one morning and realised the rattle that his grandmother had given to him.  He suddenly realised it.  He grasped the handle of it with his hand and found this cool and pleasant to touch.  He then, by accident, made it tinkle, and instantly the prettiest noise replied to him.  He shook it more lustily and the response was louder.  He was, it seemed, master of this charming thing and could force it to do what he wished.  He appealed to his Friend.  Was not this a charming thing that he had found?  He waved it and chuckled and crowed, and then his toes, sticking out beyond the bed-clothes, were nipped by the cold so that he halloed loudly.  Perhaps the rattle had nipped his toes.  He did not know, but he would cry because that eased his feelings.

That morning there came with his grandmother and mother a silly young woman who had, it was supposed, a great way with babies.  “I adore babies,” she said.  “We understand one another in the most wonderful way.”

Henry Fitzgeorge looked at her as she leaned over the cot and made faces at him.  “Goo-goo-gum-goo,” she cried.

“What is all this?” he asked his Friend.  He laid down the rattle, and felt suddenly lonely and unhappy.

“Little pet—­ug—­la—­la—­goo—­losh!” Henry Fitzgeorge raised his eyes.  His Friend was a long, long way away; his eyes grew cold with contempt.  He hated this thing that made the noises and closed out the light.  He opened his eyes, he was about to burst into one of his most abandoned roars when his stare encountered his mother.  Her eyes were watching him, and they had in them a glow and radiance that gave him a warm feeling of companionship.  “I know,” they seemed to say, “what you are thinking of.  I agree with all that you are feeling about her.  Only don’t cry, she really isn’t worth it.”  His mouth slowly closed then to thank her for her assistance, he raised the rattle and shook it at her.  His eyes never left her face.