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 ing, alone, in the large, cool, white room which was his and from the windows of which he could look out upon the tall elms and drooping willows and the placid river. He knew that there must have been a period when his mother or a maid had come to his room to bathe and dress him, but Calvin carried no recollection of the epoch. Always, so far as he could remember, he had been self-dependent and had done for himself; always he had known that he must keep within him his passion to cry, to bristle with anger or bow in grief, to betray triumph or admit disappointment or to give way to feelings of affection.

Other boys might do all these things, as other mothers might cuff and scold, kiss and hug their boys alternately and irresponsibly. His mother, of course, never had slapped Calvin in all his life; and never once, lips on his, had she kissed him. Her kiss was a touch of her lips on his forehead, usually, or sometimes upon his cheek; and when he kissed her, always her cheek was offered. He could not remember that ever he had kissed his father or his father him; and he could not imagine his father striking him for any reason whatsoever.

His boyhood association with his father consisted chiefly of serious, perfectly planned expeditions in company with a somewhat embarrassed parent who most inconsistently purchased confections which Calvin ordinarily was forbidden to eat between meals and who started out to talk to Calvin on the train, but who soon compromised by buying for himself "The Atlantic Monthly," and for Calvin, "The Youth's Companion." One journey was, of course, to Lexington and Concord; another was to Harvard Yard, where his father showed Calvin the room in Hollis which had been his—own and which was later to be Calvin's when he was in Harvard College; at another time, they visited Beacon Hill and