and rather frightened. Morse's grief
brought a lump to his throat. He had never seen any one cry like that
before. Something had to be done. But what could he do? He had no right
to intrude on Morse, but he couldn't let the poor fellow go on suffering
like that. As he stood there hesitant, shaken, Morse buried his head
deeper in his arms, moaned convulsively, twisting and trembling after a
series of sobs that seemed to tear themselves from him. That was too
much for Hugh. He couldn't stand it. Some force outside of him sent him
across the room to Morse. He put his hand on a quivering shoulder and
said gently:

"What is it, Morse? What's the matter?"

Morse ran his hand despairingly through his red hair, shook his head,
and made no answer.

"Come on, old man; buck up." Hugh's voice trembled; it was husky with
sympathy. "Tell me about it. Maybe I can help."

Then Morse looked up, his face stained with tears, his eyes inflamed,
almost desperate. He stared at Hugh wonderingly. For an instant he was
angry at the intrusion, but his anger passed at once. He could not miss
the tenderness and sympathy in Hugh's face; and the boy's hand was still
pressing with friendly insistence on his shoulder. There was something
so boyishly frank, so clean and honest about Hugh that his irritation
melted into confidence; and he craved a confidant passionately.

"Shut the door," he said dully, and reached into his trousers pocket for
his handkerchief. He mopped his face and eyes vigorously while Hugh was
closing the door, and then blew his nose as if he hated it. But the
tears continued to come, and all during his talk with Hugh he had to
pause occasionally to dry his eyes.

Hugh stood awkwardly in the middle of the rug, not knowing whether to
sit down or not. Morse was clutching his handkerchief in his hand and
staring at the floor. Finally he spoke up.

"Sit down," he said in a dead voice, "there."

Hugh sank into the chair Morse indicated and then gripped his hands
together. He felt weak and frightened, and absolutely unable to say
anything. But Morse saved him the trouble.

"I suppose you think I am an awful baby," he began, his voice thick with
tears, "but I just can't help it. I--I just can't help it. I don't want
to cry, but I do." And then he added defiantly, "Go ahead and think I'm
a baby if you want to."

"I don't think you're a baby," Hugh said softly; "I'm just sorry; that's
all.... I hope I can help." He smiled shyly,