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push. Harder than I could push myself. I know what it means. You have done your horrible thing to my baby. He’s just a baby, Abednego. And you’ve done your thing to him. How could you? Oh, how could you!”
    Mrs. Danner rose and laid the baby gently on the chair. She stood before her husband, towering over him, raised her hand, and struck with all her force. Mr. Danner fell to one knee, and a red welt lifted on his face. She struck him again and he fell against the chair. Little Hugo was dislodged. One hand caught a rung of the chair back and he hung suspended above the floor.
    â€œLook!” Mrs. Danner screamed.
    As they looked, the baby flexed its arm and lifted itself back into the chair. It was a feat that a gymnast would have accomplished with difficulty. Danner stared, ignoring the blows, the crimson on his cheek. For once in his lifetime, he suddenly defied his wife. He pointed to the child.
    â€œYes, look!” His voice rang clearly. “I did it. I vaccinated you the night the cordial put you to sleep. And there’s my son. He’s strong. Stronger than a lion’s cub. And he’ll increase in strength as he grows until Samson and Hercules would be pygmies beside him. He’ll be the first of a new and glorious race. A race that doesn’t have to fear—because it cannot know harm. No man can hurt him, no man can vanquish him. He will be mightier than any circumstances. He, son of a weak man, will be stronger than the beasts, even than the ancient dinosaurs, stronger than the tides, stronger than fate—strong as God is strong. And you—you, Matilda—mother of him, will be proud of him. He will be great and famous. You can knock me down. You can knock me down a thousand times. I have given you a son whose little finger you cannot bend with a crow-bar. Oh, all these years I’ve listened to you and obeyed you and—yes, I’ve feared you a little—and God must hate me for it. Now take your son. And my son. You cannot change him. You cannot bend him to your will. He is all I might have been. All that mankind should be.” Danner’s voice broke and he sobbed. He relented. “I know it’s hard for you. It’s against your religion—against your love, even. But try to like him. He’s no different from you and me—only stronger. And strength is a glorious thing, a great thing. Then—afterwards—if you can—forgive me.” He collapsed.
    Blood pounded in her ears. She stared at the huddled body of her husband. He had stood like a prophet and spoken words of fire. She was shaken from her pettiness. For one moment she had loved Danner. In that same instant she had glimpsed the superhuman energy that had driven him through the long years of discouragement to triumph. She had seen his soul. She fell at his feet, and when Danner opened his eyes, he found her there, weeping. He took her in his arms, timidly, clumsily. “Don’t cry, Mattie. It’ll be all right. You love him, don’t you?”
    She stared at the babe. “Of course I love him. Wash your face, Abednego.”
    After that there was peace in the house, and with it the child grew. During the next months they ignored his peculiarities. When they found him hanging outside his crib, they put him back gently. When he smashed the crib, they discussed a better place for him to repose. No hysteria, no conflict. When, in the early spring, young Hugo began to recognize them and to assert his feelings, they rejoiced as all parents rejoice.
    When he managed to vault the sill of the second-story window by some antic contortion of his limbs, they dismissed the episode. Mrs. Danner had been baking. She heard the child’s voice and it seemed to come from the yard. Startled, incredulous, she rushed upstairs. Hugo was not in his room. His wail drifted through the window. She looked out. He was lying in the yard, fifteen feet below. She rushed to his side. He