d eluded him before. He drew a long, happy
breath. It was over now. She had the Treasury Box in her hand. She
would open it by-and-by and find the golden alley and the singing-top
and the licorice-stick. He wished he dared tell Her to open it soon
on account o' the softest apple and the red-cheeked pear. Perhaps he
would dare to after a little while. It was so much easier, so far,
than he had expected.

She talked to him in Her beautiful, low-toned voice, and by-and-by
She sat down to the piano and sang to him. That was the ve-ry best.
He curled up on the sofa and listened, watching Her clear profile and
Her hair and Her pretty moving fingers, in his Little Lover way. She
looked so beautiful!--it made you want to put your cheek against Her
sleeve and rub it very softly back and forth, back and forth, over
and over again. If you only dared to!

So he was very happy until he smelled the beautiful smell again. All
at once it crept to him across the room. He recognized it instantly
as the same one that had crept out from under the lid of Uncle
Larry's box. It was there, in the great, bright room! He slid to his
feet and went about tracing it with his little up-tilted nose. It led
him across to Her, and then he saw Uncle Larry's roses on Her breast.
He uttered the softest little cry of pain--so soft She did not hear
it in Her song--and crept back to his seat. He had had his first
wound. He was only six, but at six it hurts.

It was Uncle Larry's roses She wore on Her dress--then it was roses
She liked, not licorice-sticks and golden alleys. Then it was Uncle
Larry's roses,--then She must like Uncle Larry. Then--oh, then, She
would never like _him!_ Perhaps it was Uncle Larry She had smiled at
all the time, across the aisle. Uncle Larry "reached" so far! He
wouldn't have to grow.

"She b'longs to Uncle Larry, an' I wanted Her to b'long to me.
Nobody else does--I wouldn't have needed anybody else to, if She had.
All I needed to b'long was Her. I wanted Her! I--I love Her. She
isn't Uncle Larry's--she's mine!--She's mine!" The thoughts of the
Little Lover surged on turbulently, while the beautiful low song went
on. She was singing--She was singing to Uncle Larry. The song wasn't
sweet and soft and tender for _him_. It was sweet and soft and tender
for Uncle Larry.

"I hate Uncle Larry!" cried out the Little Lover, but She did not
hear. She was lost in the tender depths of the song. It was very late
in the afternoon and