Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me aninvitation from his mother: "I shall be so pleased if you willcome and see me," and I always reply in some such words as these:"Dear madam, I decline." And if David asks why I decline, Iexplain that it is because I have no desire to meet the woman.

"Come this time, father," he urged lately, "for it is herbirthday, and she is twenty-six," which is so great an age toDavid, that I think he fears she cannot last much longer.

"Twenty-six, is she, David?" I replied. "Tell her I said shelooks more."

I had my delicious dream that night. I dreamt that I too wastwenty-six, which was a long time ago, and that I took train to aplace called my home, whose whereabouts I see not in my wakinghours, and when I alighted at the station a dear lost love waswaiting for me, and we went away together. She met me in noecstasy of emotion, nor was I surprised to find her there; it wasas if we had been married for years and parted for a day. I liketo think that I gave her some of the things to carry.

Were I to tell my delightful dream to David's mother, to whom Ihave never in my life addressed one word, she would droop herhead and raise it bravely, to imply that I make her very sad butvery proud, and she would be wishful to lend me her absurd littlepocket handkerchief. And then, had I the heart, I might make adisclosure that would startle her, for it is not the face ofDavid's mother that I see in my dreams.

Has it ever been your lot, reader, to be persecuted by a prettywoman who thinks, without a tittle of reason, that you are boweddown under a hopeless partiality for her? It is thus that I havebeen pursued for several years now by the unwelcome sympathy ofthe tender-hearted and virtuous Mary A----. When we pass in thestreet the poor deluded soul subdues her buoyancy, as if it wereshame to walk happy before one she has lamed, and at such timesthe rustle of her gown is whispered words of comfort to me, andher arms are kindly wings that wish I was a little boy likeDavid. I also detect in her a fearful elation, which I am unawareof until she has passed, when it comes back to me like a faintnote of challenge. Eyes that say you never must, nose that sayswhy don't you? and a mouth that says I rather wish you could:such is the portrait of Mary A---- as she and I pass by.

Once she dared to address me, so that she could boast to Davidthat I had spoken to her. I was in the Kensington Gardens, andshe asked would I tell her the time please, just as children ask,and forget as they run back with it to their nurse. But I wasprepared even for this, and raising my hat I pointed with mystaff to a clock in the distance. She should have beenoverwhelmed, but as I walked on listening intently, I thoughtwith displeasure that I heard her laughing.

Her laugh is very like David's, whom I could punch all day inorder to hear him laugh. I dare say she put this laugh into him.She has been putting qualities into David, altering him, turninghim forever on a lathe since the day she first knew him, andindeed long before, and all so deftly that he is still called achild of nature. When you release David's hand he is immediatelylost like an arrow from the bow. No sooner do you cast eyes onhim than you are thinking of birds. It is difficult to believethat he walks to the Kensington Gardens; he always seems to havealighted there: and were I to scatter crumbs I opine he wouldcome and peck. This is not what he set out to be; it is all thedoing of that timid-looking lady who affects to be greatlysurprised by it. He strikes a hundred gallant poses in a day;when he tumbles, which is often, he comes to the ground like aGreek god; so Mary A---- has willed it. But how she suffers thathe may achieve! I have seen him climbing a tree while she stoodbeneath in unutterable anguish; she had to let him climb, forboys must be brave, but I am sure that, as she watched him, shefell from every branch.

David admires her prodigiously; he thinks her so good that shewill be able to get him into heaven, however naughty he is.Otherwise he would trespass less light-heartedly. Perhaps shehas discovered this; for, as I learn from him, she warned himlately that she is not such a dear as he thinks her.

"I am very sure of it," I replied.

"Is she such a dear as you think her?" he asked me.

"Heaven help her," I said, "if she be not dearer than that."

Heaven help all mothers if they be not really dears, for theirboy will certainly know it in that strange short hour of the daywhen every mother stands revealed before her little son. Thatdread hour ticks between six and seven; when children go to bedlater the revelation has ceased to come. He is lapt in for thenight now and lies quietly there, madam, with great, mysteriouseyes fixed upon his mother. He is summing up your day. Nothingin the revelations that kept you together and yet apart in playtime can save you now; you two are of no age, no experience oflife separates you; it is the boy's hour, and you have come upfor judgment. "Have I done well to-day, my son?" You have gotto say it, and nothing may you hide from him; he knows all. Howlike your voice has grown to his, but more tremulous, and both sosolemn, so unlike the voice of either of you by day.

"You were a little unjust to me to-day about the apple; were younot, mother?"

Stand there, woman, by the foot of the bed and cross your handsand answer him.

"Yes, my son, I was. I thought--"

But what you thought will not affect the verdict.

"Was it fair, mother, to say that I could stay out till six, andthen pretend it was six before it was quite six?"

"No, it was very unfair. I thought--"

"Would it have been a lie if I had said it was quite six?"

"Oh, my son, my son! I shall never tell you a lie again."

"No, mother, please don't."

"My boy, have I done well to-day on the whole?"

Suppose he were unable to say yes.

These are the merest peccadilloes, you may say. Is it then alittle thing to be false to the agreement you signed when you gotthe boy? There are mothers who avoid their children in thathour, but this will not save them. Why is it that so many womenare afraid to be left alone with their thoughts between six andseven? I am not asking this of you, Mary. I believe that whenyou close David's door softly there is a gladness in your eyes,and the awe of one who knows that the God to whom little boys saytheir prayers has a face very like their mother's.

I may mention here that David is a stout believer in prayer, andhas had his first fight with another young Christian whochallenged him to the jump and prayed for victory, which Davidthought was taking an unfair advantage.

"So Mary is twenty-six! I say, David, she is getting on. Tellher that I am coming in to kiss her when she is fifty-two."

He told her, and I understand that she pretended to be indignant.When I pass her in the street now she pouts. Clearly preparingfor our meeting. She has also said, I learn, that I shall notthink so much of her when she is fifty-two, meaning that she willnot be so pretty then. So little does the sex know of beauty.Surely a spirited old lady may be the prettiest sight in theworld. For my part, I confess that it is they, and not the youngones, who have ever been my undoing. Just as I was about to fallin love I suddenly found that I preferred the mother. Indeed, Icannot see a likely young creature without impatientlyconsidering her chances for, say, fifty-two. Oh, you mysteriousgirls, when you are fifty-two we shall find you out; you mustcome into the open then. If the mouth has fallen sourly yoursthe blame: all the meannesses your youth concealed have beengathering in your face. But the pretty thoughts and sweet waysand dear, forgotten kindnesses linger there also, to bloom inyour twilight like evening primroses.

Is it not strange that, though I talk thus plainly to David abouthis mother, he still seems to think me fond of her? How now, Ireflect, what sort of bumpkin is this, and perhaps I say to himcruelly: "Boy, you are uncommonly like your mother."

To which David: "Is that why you are so kind to me?"

I suppose I am kind to him, but if so it is not for love of hismother, but because he sometimes calls me father. On my honouras a soldier, there is nothing more in it than that. I must notlet him know this, for it would make him conscious, and so breakthe spell that binds him and me together. Oftenest I am butCaptain W---- to him, and for the best of reasons. He addresses meas father when he is in a hurry only, and never have I dared askhim to use the name. He says, "Come, father," with an accursedbeautiful carelessness. So let it be, David, for a little whilelonger.

I like to hear him say it before others, as in shops. When inshops he asks the salesman how much money he makes in a day, andwhich drawer he keeps it in, and why his hair is red, and does helike Achilles, of whom David has lately heard, and is soenamoured that he wants to die to meet him. At such times theshopkeepers accept me as his father, and I cannot explain thepeculiar pleasure this gives me. I am always in two minds then,to linger that we may have more of it, and to snatch him awaybefore he volunteers the information, "He is not really myfather."

When David meets Achilles I know what will happen. The littleboy will take the hero by the hand, call him father, and drag himaway to some Round Pond.

One day, when David was about five, I sent him the followingletter: "Dear David: If you really want to know how it began,will you come and have a chop with me to-day at the club?"

Mary, who, I have found out, opens all his letters, gave herconsent, and, I doubt not, instructed him to pay heed to whathappened so that he might repeat it to her, for despite hercuriosity she knows not how it began herself. I chuckled,guessing that she expected something romantic.

He came to me arrayed as for a mighty journey, and lookingunusually solemn, as little boys always do look when they arewearing a great coat. There was a shawl round his neck. "Youcan take some of them off," I said, "when we come to summer."

"Shall we come to summer?" he asked, properly awed.

"To many summers," I replied, "for we are going away back, David,to see your mother as she was in the days before there was you."

We hailed a hansom. "Drive back six years," I said to the cabby,"and stop at the Junior Old Fogies' Club."

He was a stupid fellow, and I had to guide him with my umbrella.

The streets were not quite as they had been in the morning. Forinstance, the bookshop at the corner was now selling fish. Idropped David a hint of what was going on.

"It doesn't make me littler, does it?" he asked anxiously; andthen, with a terrible misgiving: "It won't make me too little,will it, father?" by which he meant that he hoped it would not dofor him altogether. He slipped his hand nervously into mine, andI put it in my pocket.

You can't think how little David looked as we entered the portalsof the club.