Jane sat in the early dusk the next evening and watched the lights come out along the river banks, and twinkle on the boats. Martin was announced, and she went to him, hands out, face shining.
"But it is a miracle!" he exclaimed. "You are well, and beautiful again. Where is this mythical child?"
She laughed and led him to the bed where the baby lay, wide-eyed, inspecting the brand-new universe.
"This is Martin, my son. I want you to be friends," she said softly to him.
Martin bent to insert one forefinger in the tightly closed fist.
"How do you do, my lad? I greet you to this planet."
The baby looked at the source of the big voice. Then an infantile spasm crossed his face.
"Ha! he laughs at our planet! He knows Venus, perhaps, or Mars."
"He looks as if he had known the jungle. He's like a wise little old monkey," laughed Jane.
"So he is. That always fascinates me about the young of our race, they seem to hook us on to our past, to our blood brothers Babu and Mowgli, the Manling. You remember how Whitman said it?