The smile in her eyes held the mother look, in its yearning tenderness.

“Ronnie dear, you are so very much younger than I, in many ways; and you always will be.  Unlike the ‘Infant of Days,’ if you live to be a hundred years old, you will still die young; a child in heart, full of youth’s joyous joy in living.  You must not mind if your wife occasionally treats you as though you were a dear big baby, requiring maternal care and petting.  You are such a veritable boy sometimes, and it soothes the yearning for a little son of yours to cuddle in her arms, when she plays that her big boy is something of a baby.”

Ronald took her left hand from about his neck, and kissed it tenderly.

This was his only answer, but his silence meant more to Helen than speech.  Words flowed so readily to express his surface thoughts; but when words suddenly and unexpectedly failed, a deeper depth had been reached; and in that silence, his wife found comfort and content.

Ronnie was not all ripples.  There was more beneath than the shifting shallows.  Deep, still pools were there, and rocks on which might eventually be built a beacon-light for the souls of men.  But, as yet, it took Helen’s clear and faithful eyes to discern the pools; to perceive the possible strong foundations.

“Do you remember,” he said presently, “the Dalmains coming over last January, with their little Geoff?  When I saw that jolly little chap trotting about, and looking up at his mother with big shining eyes, full of trustful love and innocent courage, absolutely unafraid—­notwithstanding her rather peremptory manner, and apparently stern discipline—­I felt that it must be the making of two people to have such a little son as that, depending upon them to show him how to grow up right.  One would simply be obliged to live up to his baby belief in one; wouldn’t one, Helen?”

“Yes, darling; we—­we should.”

“I hope you will see a lot of the Dalmains while I am away.  Try to put in a good long visit there.  And she would come over, if you wanted her, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes; she will come if I want her.”

“You and she are great friends,” pursued Ronnie, “aren’t you? I find her alarming.  When she looks at me, I feel such a worm.  I want to slide into a hole and hide.  But there is never a hole to be found.  I have to remain erect, handing tea and bread-and-butter, while I mentally grovel.  I almost pray that a hungry blackbird or a prying thrush may chance to come my way, and consider me juicy and appetising.  You remember—­the Vicar and Mrs. Vicar came to tea that day.  She wore brown spots.  But even the priestly blackbird, and the Levitical thrush, passed me by on the other side.”

“Oh, Ronnie, how silly!  I know Jane admires your books, darling!”

“She considers me quite unfit to tie your shoe-strings.”

“Ronnie, be quiet!  You would not be afraid of her, had you ever known what it was to turn to her in trouble or difficulty.  She helped me through an awfully hard time, six months before I met you.  She showed me the right thing to do, then stood by me while I did it.  There is nobody in the whole world quite like her.”