“I wasn’t crying,” he said proudly.  “I couldn’t cry.”

He found it easy to say that in the bright light of the morning.  But it was a different matter at night.  That very night again he wept.  She could hear his sobs stifled in the pillow.  She was going to bed.  When the sound reached her ears, she stopped, listening.  It was crying!  She opened her door gently.  Certainly it was the sound of crying!  Then, half-undressed, not thinking to cover her shoulders, she crept across the passage to his door, opened it and peered inside.

“Maurie,” she whispered.

The crying stopped.

“Maurie,” she repeated, “you are crying.”

He admitted it—­sadly; they had found him out.  Now they would think he was a baby.  That was the inevitable accusation in the mind of these people who were grown up—­in the mind of every one, except his mother.

“But I’m not a baby!” he exclaimed.

Sally knelt down by the side of his bed.  “Who said you were a baby?” she whispered.

“You were just going to.”

“No, I wasn’t.  I don’t think you are a baby.  I cry sometimes.”

“Do you?” There was a thin note of amazement in his voice.  “What do you cry for?”

“Oh, lots of things.  What do you?”

“For mummy—­it’s so cold in bed without mummy.”

“Do you sleep with mummy, then?” she asked, and she slid a warm arm around his sturdy little neck.

“Yes—­always.  Mummy’s so warm and she lies so tight.  Your arm’s warm—­I like your arm.”  He felt it with his fingers.  “What’s that?” he asked suddenly.

“What’s what?” said Sally.

“Something wet fell on the back of my hand.  Why, it’s you—­it’s you.  You’re crying.  Aren’t you?  You’re crying.  Oh, I wonder if you’re a baby.  I don’t see why you should be, if you don’t think I am.  Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, but you must know!  I always know why I’m crying.  I cry at nights when it’s all dark, and you can’t hear anything.  I cry then because I want mummy.  Mummy cries sometimes though, and she doesn’t know why.”

“Do you ask her, then?”

“Yes; and she says she doesn’t know.  So I suppose ladies don’t know sometimes, but boys always do.  But you won’t say I cried, will you?  Promise!”

“I promise,” she said firmly.

“Because the others ’ud think I was a baby if they knew, and I’m not really a baby—­not in the morning, am I?”

“No; not a bit.”

“You wouldn’t think I was a baby when you give me my music lesson, would you?”

“No; I always think you’re very brave.”

He twisted about in the bed.  “Put your other arm round my neck, will you?—­like mummy does.  She always puts both arms—­it’s much warmer.”

She clasped him with both arms.

“Ah; that’s better,” he said.  “I hope mummy wouldn’t mind, because she said I wasn’t to love any one else but her.  But, of course, I don’t really love you, you know.  I like you because you’re warm.”