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had not believed it, at first; she had been shocked by her lack of charity. But the look returned more and more frequently, and then was never absent when the eyes of the boy and girl met. How was it possible for a baby, and then a very young child, to feel such mature hatred for another, and why? She had always been loving and patient with him, and proud of him, and had bought him gifts, until the last year, when she had come to dislike and then to hate him. A silent and relentless war had been declared between them, to Alice’s helplessness. But Angelo, or Bruce, had hated her first. She shivered a little, remembering. Bruce was not really a child; he had never been one. To be mystical about it, he had never been a baby, either. She had encountered his kind a few times in her class, and had referred them to the visiting psychiatrist, who had declared that “the little ones” were emotionally troubled and needed “tender, loving care.”
    But Alice knew that Angelo had never received anything but tender, loving care from the moment of his birth. Mark almost invariably conceded to any of Kathy’s demands; the two rarely quarreled, and then never in the presence of the child. He was surrounded by security, happiness, deference to all his whims, luxury and peace, all the things which child psychologists declared necessary for the emotional health of children. It was the absence of these, the psychologists insisted, which were the causes of emotional disorders in children. Alice recalled that the few children like Angelo, in her classes, also had superior environments at home, with parents who loved them and each other, and who strived to give those children every advantage. The “broken home” hypothesis was absurd. The best children in her classes, the kindest, the most understanding, the most considerate, were the children of widows or widowers, or divorced parents, or separated parents, or poor parents who could give their children only the barest necessities.
    There was something sinister and terrible in the innate personalities of children like Angelo which the tenderhearted and well-meaning child psychologists would not admit or recognize. It would upset the dogmas of their lives, the hypotheses on which they lived and drew large salaries from the State. It would force them to acknowledge that many people were born evil, and all the efforts of the clergy, parents and teachers could not abolish that evil. Only the Church knew of these, and warned of them. No one listened.
    But Alice, looking at Mark now, hoped for the best. It was possible she was exaggerating; she had always been too serious. Angelo would probably grow up to be the first in his class at college, honored and respected, the bearer of scholarships. It was just that Kathy was spoiling him now, poor, foolish Kathy!
    “May I give you a lift, Allie?” asked Mark, as the girl began to gather up her books.
    “No, thanks. I have my car, parked around the corner.”
    Mark smiled at her, and his smile was gentle and kind, and her heart lurched with unbearable pain. “I never noticed it before,” he said. “You’re a very pretty girl, Allie. Any marriage prospects in sight? If there aren’t, the boys aren’t looking!”
    Alice tried to smile gaily. “Oh, no one looks at a teacher!”
    “I don’t know why. They’re just about the finest people in the world, man or woman. I often wonder how they can stand it. or why they teach.”
    “It’s a long story,” said Alice, putting on her gloves. If she stayed a minute more, she thought to herself desperately, she would burst out crying. She was very “nervy” these days.
    “You’ll visit us soon, then?” asked Mark, as they walked out of the store together.
    “Of course,” said the girl. “Give my love to Kathy. And to—Bruce.”
    She left him quickly, and he stood and watched her go down the street. The snow had stopped; the sky was clear and hard and blue and the spring sunshine washed wall