Bobby had learned U that day in school, and he strutted¹ home beside his nurse, Olga, with conscious relief in the swing of his sturdy legs. There was a special reason why Bobby felt relieved to get to U. He glanced up, up, up, sidewise, at the non-committal face so far above him, and wondered in his anxious little way whether or not it would be prudent² to speak of the special reason now. Olga had times, Bobby had discovered, when you dassent speak of things, and it looked—yes, cert’nly—as though she was having one now. Still, if you only dast to—  
“It’s the same one that’s in the middle o’ my name, don’t you know,” he plunged³ in, hurriedly.
 
“Mercy! What iss it the child iss talking about!”
 
There! wasn’t she having one? Didn’t she usually say “Mercy!” like that when she was?
 
“That letter, you know—U. The one in the middle o’ my name,” Bobby hastened on—“right prezac’ly in the middle of it. I wish”—but he caught himself up with a jerk. It didn’t seem best, after all, to consult Olga now—not now, while she was having one. Better wait—only, dear, dear, dear, how long he had waited a’ready!
 
It had not occurred to Bobby to consult his mother. They two were not intimately acquainted, and naturally he felt shy.
 
Bobby’s mother was very young and beautiful. He had seen her dressed in a wondrous⁴ soft white dress once, with little specks⁶ of shiny things burning on her bare throat, and ever since he had known what angels look like.
 
There were reasons enough why Bobby seldom saw his mother. The house was very big, and her room so far away from his;—that was one reason. Then he always went to bed, and got up, and ate his meals before she did.
 
There was another reason why he and the beautiful young mother did not know each other very well, but even Olga had never explained that one. Bobby had that ahead of him to find out,—poor Bobby! Some one had called him Fire Face once at school, but the kind-hearted teacher had never let it happen again.
 
At home, in the great empty house, the mirrors were all high up out of reach, and in the nursery there had never been any at all. Bobby had never looked at himself in a mirror. Of course he had seen himself up to his chin—dear, yes—and admired his own little straight legs often enough, and doubled up his little round arms to hunt for his “muscle.” In a quiet, unobtrusive way Bobby was rather proud of himself. He had to be—there was no one else, you see. And even at six, when there is so little else to do, one can put in considerable time regarding one’s legs and arms.
 
“I guess you don’t call those bow-legged legs, do you, Olga?” he had exulted⁷ once, in an unguarded moment when he had been thinking of Cleggy Munro’s legs at school. “I guess you call those pretty straight-up-’n’-down ones!” And the hard face of the old nurse had suddenly softened⁸ in a strange, pleasant way, and for the one only time that he could remember, Olga had taken Bobby in her arms and kissed him.
 
“They’re beautiful legs, that iss so,” Olga had said, but she hadn’t been looking at them when she said it. She had been looking straight into his face. The look hurt, too, Bobby remembered. He did not know what pity was, but it was that that hurt.
 
The night after he learned U at school Bobby decided⁹ to hazard everything and ask Olga what the one in his name stood for. He could not put it off any longer.
 
“Olga, what does the U in the middle o’ my name stand for?” he broke out, suddenly, while he was being unbuttoned for bed. “I know it’s a U, but I don’t know a U-what. I’ve ’cided I won’t go to bed till I’ve found out.”
 
Things had gone criss-cross. The old Norwegian woman was not in a good humor.
 
“Unwelcome—that iss what it must stand for,” she laughed unpleasantly.
 
“Bobby Unwelcome!” Bobby laughed too. Then a piteous little suspicion crept into his mind and began to grow. He turned upon Olga sharply. “What does Unwelcome mean?” he demanded.
 
“Eh? Iss it not enough plain to you? Well, not wanted—that iss what it means then.”
 
“Not wanted,—not wanted.” Bobby repeated the words over and over to himself, not quite satisfied yet. They sounded bad—oh, very; but perhaps Olga had got them wrong. She was not a United States person. It would be easy for another kind of a person to get things wrong. Still—“not wanted”—they certainly sounded very plain. And they meant—Bobby gave a faint gasp¹⁰, and suddenly his thoughts turned dizzily round and round one terrible pivot—“not wanted.” He sprang away out of the nurse’s hands and darted¹¹ down the long, bright hall to his mother’s room. She was being dressed for a ball, and the room was pitilessly light. She sat at a table with a little mirror before her. Suddenly another face appeared in it with hers—a little, scarred, red face, stamped deep with childish woe¹². The contrast appalled¹³ her.
 
Bobby was not looking into the glass, but into her beautiful face.
 
“Is that what it stands for?” he demanded, breathlessly. “She said so. Did she lie?”
 
“Robert! For Heaven’s sake, child, stand away! You are tearing my lace. What are you doing here? Why are you not in bed?”
 
“Does it stand for that?” he persisted.
 
“Does what stand for what? Look, you are crushing my dress. Stand farther off. Don’t you see, child?”
 
“She said the U in the middle o’ my name stood for Not Wanted. Does it? Tell me quick. Does it?”
 
The contrast of the two faces in her mirror hurt her like a blow. It brought back all the disappointment and the wounded vanity of that time, six years ago, when they had shown her the tiny, disfigured face of her son.
 
“No, it wasn’t that. I morember now. It was Unwelcome, but it means that. Is the middle o’ my name Unwelcome—what?”
 
“Oh yes, yes, yes!” she cried, scarcely knowing what she said. The boy’s eyes followed hers to the mirror, and in that brief, awful space he tasted of the Tree of Knowledge.
 
With a little cry he stumbled backward into the lighted hall. There was a slip, and the sound of a soft little body bounding down the polished stairs.
 
A good while afterwards Bobby opened his eyes wonderingly. There seemed to be people near him, but he could not see them at all distinctly. A faint, wonderful perfume crept to him.
 
“It’s very dark, isn’t it?” he said, in surprise. “I can smell a beautiful smell, but I can’t see it. Why, why! It isn’t you, is it?—not my mother? Why, I wasn’t ’specting to find— Oh, I morember it now—I morember it all! Then I’m glad it’s dark. I shouldn’t want it to be as light as that again. Oh no! oh no! I shouldn’t want her to see— Why, she’s crying! What is she crying for?”
 
He put out a small weak hand and groped towards the sound of bitter sobbing¹⁴. Instinctively¹⁵ he knew it was she.
 
“I’m very sorry. I guess I know what the matter is. It’s me, and I’m very sorry. I never knew it before; no, I never. I’m glad it’s dark now—aren’t you?—’count o’ that. Only I’m a little speck⁵ sorry it isn’t light enough for you to see my legs. They’re very straight ones—you can ask Olga. You might feel of ’em if you thought ’twould help any to. P’r’aps it might make you feel a very little—just a very little—better to. They’re cert’nly very straight ones. But then of course they aren’t like a—like a—a face. They’re only legs. But they’re the best I can do.”
 
He ended wearily, with a sigh of pain. The bitter sobbing kept on, and seemed to trouble him. Then a new idea occurred to him, and he made a painful effort to turn on his pillow and to speak brightly.
 
“I didn’t think of that— P’r’aps you think I’m feeling bad ’count o’ the U in the middle o’ my name. Is that what makes you cry? Why, you needn’t. That’s all right! After—after I looked in there, of course I knew ’bout how it was. I wish you wouldn’t cry. It joggles my—my heart.”
 
But it was his little broken body that it joggled. The mother found it out, and stopped sobbing by a mighty¹⁶ effort. She drew very close to Bobby in the dark that was light to every one else, and laid her wet cheek against the little, scarred, red face. The motion was so gentle that it scarcely stirred the yellow tendrils of his soft hair. An infinite tenderness was born out of her anguish¹⁷. There was left her a merciful moment to be a mother in. Bobby forgot his pain in the bliss¹⁸ of it.
 
“Why, why, this is very nice!” he murmured, happily. “I never knew it would be as nice as this—I never knew! But I’m glad it’s dark,—aren’t you? I’d rather it would—be——dark.”
 
And then it grew altogether dark for Bobby, and the little face against the new-born, heart-broken mother’s cheek felt cold, and would not warm with all her passionate¹⁹ kisses.