out
your _mother_. You have to say she kisses you--oh, always! She comes
'way up-stairs every night a-purpose to. An' she tucks you in, an'
she calls you--_Dear_. It's a Lie an' it 'most kills you, but you
have to say it. But it's perfectly awful afterwards." He nestled
against the soft down of her cloak and moaned as if in pain. "It's
awful afterwards when you have to sleep with the Lie. It's
perfectly--aw--ful--"

"Oh, Carter!" the mother broke out, for it was all plain to her. In a
flash of agonized understanding the wistful little sleep-story was
filled out in every detail. She understood all the tragedy of it.

"Russy! Russy!" She shook him in her eagerness. "Russy, it's my
kisses! _I'm_ kissing you! It isn't Jeffy's mother,--it's your
mother, Russy! Feel them!--don't you feel them on your forehead and
your hair and your little red lips? It's your mother kissing _you!_"

Russy opened his eyes.

"Why! Why, so it is!" he said.

"And calling you 'Dear,' Russy! Don't you hear her? Dear boy,--_dear_
little boy! You hear her, don't you, Russy--dear?"

"Why, yes!--_why!_"

"And tucking you into bed--like this,--_so!_ She's tucking in the
blanket now,--and now the little quilt, Russy! That is what mothers
are for--I never thought before--oh, I never thought!" She dropped
her face beside his on the pillow and fell to kissing him again. He
held his face quite still for the sweet, strange baptism. Then
suddenly he laughed out happily, wildly.

"Then it isn't a Lie!" he cried, in a delirium of relief and joy.
"It's true!"

Chapter VII

The Princess of Make-Believe

The Princess was washing dishes. On her feet she would barely have
reached the rim of the great dish-pan, but on the soap-box she did
very well. A grimy calico apron trailed to the floor.

"Now this golden platter I must wash _extry_ clean," the Princess
said. "The Queen is ve-ry particular about her golden platters. Last
time, when I left one o' the corners--it's such a nextremely heavy
platter to hold--she gave me a scold--oh, I mean--I mean she tapped
me a little love pat on my cheek with her golden spoon."

It was a great, brown-veined, stoneware platter, and the arms of the
Princess ached with holding it. Then, in an unwary instant, it
slipped out of her soapsudsy little fingers and crashed to the floor.
Oh! oh! the Queen! the Queen! She was coming! The Princess heard her
shrill, angry voice, and felt the jar of her heavy steps. There