[Illustration: That is where we play--I mean it is most pleasant there]

 The Very Small Person

By

Annie Hamilton Donnell

Author of "Rebecca Mary"

Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green

New York and London

Harper & Brothers Publishers

MCMVI

Contents

 I. Little Blue Overalls II. The Boy III. The Adopted IV. Bobby Unwelcome V. The Little Girl Who Should Have Been a Boy VI. The Lie VII. The Princess of Make-Believe VIII. The Promise IX. The Little Lover X. The Child XI. The Recompense

Illustrations

 That is where we play--I mean it is most pleasant there Little Blue Overalls climbed into a chair 'Fore I'd lean my chin on folks's gates and watch 'em! She stayed there a week--a month--a year It was worse than creepy, creaky noises I can't play . . . I'm being good Murray had . . . Seen the vision, too Elizabeth

Chapter I

Little Blue Overalls

Miss Salome's face was gently frowning as she wrote. 

"Dear John, " the letter began, --"It's all very well except one thing. I wonder you didn't think of that. _I'm_ thinking of it mostof the time, and it takes away so much of the pleasure of therose-garden and the raspberry-bushes! Anne is in raptures over theraspberry-bushes. 

"Yes, the raspberries and the roses are all right. And I like thestone-wall with the woodbine over it. (Good boy, you remembered that, didn't you?) And the apple-tree and the horse-chestnut and theelm--of course I like them. 

"The house is just big enough and just small enough, and there's atrunk-closet, as I stipulated. And Anne's room has a 'southernexposure'--Anne's crazy spot is southern exposures. Mine's _it_. Dear, dear, John, how could you forget _it!_ That everythingelse--closets and stone-walls and exposures--should be to my mind but_that!_ Well, I am thinking of moving out, before I move in. But Ihaven't told Anne. Anne is the kind of person _not_ to tell, untilthe last moment. It saves one's nerves--heigh-ho! I thought I wascoming here to get away from nerves! I was so satisfied. I reallymeant to thank you, John, until I discovered--it. Oh yes, Iknow--Elizabeth is looking over your shoulder, and you two are sayingsomething that is unfit for publication about old maids! My children, then thank the Lord you aren't either of you old maids. Make the mostof it. "

Miss Salome let her pen slip to the bare floor and gazed before herwistfully. The room was in the dreary early stages of unpacking, butit was not of that Miss Salome was thinking. Her eyes were gazing outof the window at a thin gray trail of smoke against the blue groundof the sky. She could see the little house, too, brown and tiny and alittle battered. She could see the clothes-line, and count easilyenough the pairs of little stockings on it. She caught up the penagain fiercely. 

"There are eight, " she wrote. "Allowing two legs to a child, doesn'tthat make _four?_ John Dearborn, you have bought me a house nextdoor to four children! I think I shall begin to put the books backto-night. As ill luck will have it, they are all unpacked. 

"I have said nothing to Anne; Anne has said nothing to me. But weboth know. She has counted the stockings too. We are both old maids. No, I have not _seen_ them yet--anything but their stockings on theclothes-line. But the mother is not a washer-woman--there is no hope. I don't know how I know she isn't a washer-woman, but I do. It isimpressed upon me. So there are four children, to say nothing of theLord knows how many babies still in socks! I cannot forgive you, John. "

Miss Salome had been abroad for many years. Stricken suddenly withhomesickness, she and her ancient serving-woman, Anne, had fledacross seas to their native land. Miss Salome had first commissionedJohn, long-suffering John, --adviser, business-manager, brother, --tofind her a snug little home with specified adjuncts of trunk-closets, elm, apple, and horse-chestnut trees, woodbiney stone walls--and a"southern exposure" for Anne. John had done his best. But how couldhe have forgotten, and Elizabeth have forgotten, and Miss Salomeherself have forgotten--it? Every one knew Miss Salome's distaste forlittle children. Anne's too, though Anne was more taciturn than hermistress. 

"Hullo!"

Miss Salome started. In the doorway stood a very small person in bluejeans overalls. 

"Hullo! I want your money or your life! I'm a 'wayman. "

"A--_what?_" Miss Salome managed to ejaculate. The Little BlueOveralls advanced a few feet into the room. 

"Robber, you know;--you know what robbers are, don't you? I'm one. You needn't call me a _high_wayman, I'm so--so low. Just 'wayman 'lldo. Why, gracious! you ain't afraid, are you? You needn't be, --Iwon't hurt you!" and a sweet-toned, delighted little laugh echoedthrough the bare room. "You needn't give me your money or your life. Never mind. I'll 'scuse you. "

Miss Salome uttered no word at all. Of course this boy belonged in apair of those stockings over there. It was no more than was to beexpected. 

"It's me. I'm not a 'wayman any more, --just _me_. I heard you'd come, so I thought I'd come an' see you. You glad? Why don't you ask mewill I take a seat?"

"Will I--will you take a seat?" repeated Miss Salome, as if she weresaying a lesson. The Little Blue Overalls climbed into a chair. 

[Illustration: Little Blue Overalls climbed into a chair]

"Looks pretty bad here, doesn't it? I guess you forgot to sweep, " hesaid, assuming social curves in his plump little body. He had the airof having come to stay. Miss Salome's lips, under orders to tighten, found themselves unexpectedly relaxing into a smile. The Little BlueOveralls was amusing. 

"_We've_ got a sofy, an' a rockin'-chair. The sofy's new, butChessie's broke a hole in it. "

"Are there four of you?" Miss Salome asked, abruptly. It was theLittle Blue Overalls' turn to start now. 

"_Me?_--gracious! four o' me? I guess you're out o' your head, aren't-- Oh, you mean _child'en!_ Well, there's five, 'thoutcountin' the spandy new one--she's too little to count. "

Five--six, with the spandy new one! Miss Salome's gaze wandered fromthe piles of books on the floor to the empty packing-boxes, as iftrying to find the shortest distance. 

"There are only four pairs on the line, " she murmured, weakly, --"stockings, " she added. The Little Blue Overalls noddedcomprehendingly. 

"I don't wear 'em summers, --I guess you didn't notice I was in mybare feet, did you? Well, I am. It's a savin'. The rest are nothingbut girls--I'm all the boy we've got. Boys are tough. But I don'ts'pose you ever was one, so you don't know?" There was an upwardinflection to the voice of the Little Blue Overalls. An answer seemedexpected. 

"No--no, I never was one, " Miss Salome said, hastily. She could hearAnne's plodding steps in the hall. It would be embarrassing to haveAnne come in now. But the footsteps plodded by. After moreconversation on a surprising number of topics, the Little BlueOveralls climbed out of the chair. 

"I've had a 'joyable time, an' I'll be pleased to come again, thankyou, " he said, with cheerful politeness. "I'm glad you've come, --Ilike you, but I hope you'll sweep your floor. " He retreated a fewsteps, then faced about again and advanced into the enemy's nearneighborhood. He was holding out a very small, brown, unwashed hand. "I forgot 'bout shakin' hands, " he smiled. "Le's. I hope you like me, too, an' I guess you do, don't you? Everybody does. Nobody ever_didn't_ like me in my life, an' I'm seven. Good-bye. "

Miss Salome heard him patter down the hall, and she half thought--shewas not sure--that at the kitchen door he stopped. Half an hourafterwards she saw a very small person crossing the rose-garden. Ifthere was something in his hands that he was eating, Miss Salomenever asked Anne about it. It was not her way to ask Anne questions. It was not Anne's way to ask her. The letter to John was finished, oddly enough, without further mention of--it. Miss Salome got thebroom and swept the bare big room carefully. She hummed a little asshe worked. Out in the kitchen Anne was humming too. 

"It is a pleasant little place, especially the stone-wall and thewoodbine, " Miss Salome was thinking; "I'm glad I specified woodbineand stone-walls. John would never have thought. So many other thingsare pleasant, too; but, dear, dear, it is very unfortunate about thatone thing!" Still Miss Salome hummed, and after tea she got Anne tohelp her move out the empty packing-boxes. 

The next day the Little Blue Overalls came again. This time he was apeddler, with horse-chestnut "apples" to sell, and rose-petal pies. He said they were bargains. 

"You can truly eat the pies, " he remarked. "There's a _little_ sugarin 'em. I saved it off the top o' _her_ bun, " indicating Anne'slocality with a jerk of his little cropped head. So it was a fact, was it? He had been eating something when he crossed the rose-garden?Miss Salome wondered at Anne. 

The next day, and the next, --every day the Little Blue Overalls came, always in a new character. Miss Salome found herself watching forhim. She could catch the little blue glint of very small overalls assoon as they got to the far side of the rose-garden. But for Anne, atthe end of the first week she would have gone out to meet him. Dear, dear, but for Miss Salome, Anne would have gone!

The Little Blue Overalls confided his troubles to Miss Salome. Hetold her how hard it was to be the only boy, --how impossible, ofcourse, it was to play girly plays, and how he had longed to find acongenial spirit. Mysteriously enough, he appeared confident that hehad found the congenial spirit at last. Miss Salome's petticoatsseemed no obstacle. He showed her his pocketful of treasures. Hetaught her to whittle, and how to bear it when she "bleeded. " Hetaught her to whistle--very softly, on account of Anne. (He taughtAnne, too--softly, on account of Miss Salome. ) He let her make sailsfor his boats, and sew on his buttons, --those that Anne didn't sewon. 

"Dear John, " wrote Miss Salome, "the raspberries are ripe. When youwere a very small person--say seven--did you ever mash them betweenraspberry leaves, with 'sugar in, ' and call them pies, --and eat them?They are really palatable. Of course it is a little risky on accountof possible bugs. I don't remember that you were a remarkable littleboy. Were you? Did you ever play you were a highwayman, or anelephant, or anything of that sort? Queer I can't remember. 

"Anne is delighted with her southern exposure, but she has never saidso. That is why I know she is. I am delighted with the roses and theclosets and the horse-chestnut--especially the horst-chestnut. Thatis where we play--I mean it is most pleasant there, hot afternoons. Did you use to dote on horse-chestnuts? Queer boys should. But Irather like them myself, in a way, --out of the way! We have picked upa hundred and seventeen. " Miss Salome dropped into the plural numberinnocently, and Elizabeth laughed over John's shoulder. Elizabeth didthe reading between the lines. John was only a man. 

One day Little Blue Overalls was late. He came from the direction ofthe stable that adjoined Miss Salome's house. He was excited andbreathless. A fur rug was draped around his shoulders and traileduncomfortably behind him. 

"Come on!" he cried, eagerly. "It's a circus! I'm the grizzled bear. There's a four-legged girl--Chessie, you know, with stockin's on herhands, --and a Manx rooster ('thout any tail), and, oh, my! the_splendidest_ livin' skeleton you ever saw! I want you to beman'ger--come on! It's easy enough. You poke us with a stick, an' weperform. I dance, an' the four-legged girl walks, an' the roostercrows, an' the skeleton skel-- Oh, well, you needn't poke theskeleton. "

The Little Blue Overalls paused for breath. Miss Salome laid asideher work. Where was Anne?--but the stable could be reached withoutpassing the kitchen windows. Saturdays Anne was very busy, anyway. 

"I'm ready, " laughed Miss Salome. She had never been acircus-manager, but she could learn. It was easier than whittling. Together they hurried away to the stable. At the door Miss Salomecame to an abrupt stop. An astonished exclamation escaped her. 

The living skeleton sat on an empty barrel, lean and grave andpatient. The living skeleton also uttered an exclamation. She and thecircus-manager gazed at each other in a remarkable way, as if under aspell. 

"Come on!" shouted the grizzled bear. 

After that, Miss Salome and Anne were not so reserved. What was theuse? And it was much easier, after all, to be found out. Things ranalong smoothly and pleasantly after that. 

Late in the autumn, Elizabeth, looking over John's shoulder one day, laughed, then cried out, sharply. "Oh!" she said; "oh, I am sorry!"And John echoed her an instant later. 

"Dear John, " the letter said, "when you were little were you eververy sick, and did you _die?_ Oh, I see, but don't laugh. I think Iam a little out of my head to-day. One is when one is anxious. AndLittle Blue Overalls is very sick. I found Anne crying a little whileago, and just now she came in and found me. She didn't mind; I don't. 

"He did not come yesterday or the day before. Yesterday I went to seewhy. Anne was just coming away from the door. 'He's sick, ' she said, in her crisp, sharp way, --you know it, John, --but she was white inthe face. The little mother came to the door. Queer I had never seenher before, --Little Blue Overalls has her blue eyes. 

"There were two or three small persons clinging to her, and the verysmallest one I ever saw was in her arms. She looked fright--" Theletter broke off abruptly here. Another slip was enclosed that beganas abruptly. "Anne says it is scarlet-fever. The doctor has beenthere just now. I am going to have him brought over here--you _know_I don't mean the doctor. And you would not smile, either of you--notElizabeth, anyway, for she will think of her own babies--"

"Yes, yes, " Elizabeth cried, "I am thinking!"

"--That is why he must not stay over there. There are so many babies. I am going over there now. "

The letter that followed this one was a week delayed. 

"Dear John, " it said, --"you must be looking out for another place. Ifanything should--he is very sick, John! And I could not stay herewithout him. Nor Anne. John, would you ever think that Anne was borna nurse? Well, the Lord made her one. I have found it out. Not with alittle dainty white cap on, and a nurse's apron, --not that kind, butwith light, cool fingers and a great, tender heart. That is theLord's kind, and it's Anne. She is taking beautiful care of ourLittle Blue Overalls. The little mother and I appreciate Anne. But heis very very sick, John. 

"I could not stay here. Why, there isn't a spot that wouldn't remindme! There's a faint little path worn in the grass beside thestone-wall where he has been 'sentry. ' There's a bare spot under thehorse-chestnut where he played blacksmith and 'shoe-ed' thesaw-horse. And he used to pounce out on me from behind the old elmand demand my money or my life, --he was a highwayman the first time Isaw him. I've bought rose-pies and horse-chestnut apples of him onthe front door-steps. We've played circus in the barn. We've beenIndians and gypsies and Rough Riders all over the place. You mustlook round for another one, John. I can't stay here. 

"Here's Anne. She says he is asleep now. Before he went he sent wordto me that he was a wounded soldier, and he _wished_ I'd make a redcross and sew it on Anne's sleeve. I must go and make it. Good-bye. The letter will not smell good because I shall fumigate it, onaccount of Elizabeth's babies. You need not be afraid. "

There was no letter at all the next week, early or late, and theywere afraid Little Blue Overalls was dead. Elizabeth hugged herbabies close and cried softly over their little, bright heads. Thenshortly afterwards the telegram came, and she laughed--andcried--over that. It was as welcome as it was guiltless ofpunctuation:

"Thank the Lord John Little Blue Overalls is going to get well. "

Chapter II

The Boy

The trail of the Boy was always entirely distinct, but on thisespecial morning it lay over house, porch, barn--everything. TheMother followed it up, stooping to gather the miscellany of boyishbelongings into her apron. She had a delightful scheme in her mindfor clearing everything up. She wanted to see how it would seem, foronce, not to have any litter of whittlings, of strings and marblesand tops! No litter of beloved birds' eggs, snake-skins, turtle-shells! No trail of the Boy anywhere. 

It had taken the whole family to get the Boy off, but now he wasgone. Even yet the haze of dust the stage-coach had stirred up fromthe dry roadway lingered like a faint blur on the landscape. It couldnot be ten minutes since they had bidden the Boy his first good-bye. The Mother smiled softly. 

"But I did it!" she murmured. "Of course, --I _had_ to. The idea ofletting your Boy go off without kissing him good-bye! Mary, " shesuddenly spoke aloud, addressing the Patient Aunt, who was followingthe trail too, picking up the siftings from the other's apron--"Mary, did you kiss him? There was really no need, you know, because you arenot his mother. And it would have saved his feelings not to. "

The Patient Aunt laughed. She was very young and pretty, and the"patient" in her name had to do only with her manner of bearing theBoy. 

"No, I didn't, " she said. "I didn't dare to, after I saw him wipeyours off!"

"_Mary!_"

"With the back of his hand. I am not near-sighted. Now _why_ should awell-meaning little kiss distress a Boy like that? That's what I wantto know. "

"It didn't once, " sighed the Mother, gently. "Not when he was a baby. I'm glad I got in a great many of them then, while I had a chance. Itwas the trousers that did it, Mary. From the minute he put ontrousers he objected to being kissed. I put his kilts on again oneday, and he let me kiss him. "

"But it was a bribe to get you to take them off, " laughed the PatientAunt, wickedly. "I remember;--I was there. And you took them off topay for that kiss. You can't deny it, Bess. "

"Yes, I took them off--and after that I kissed _them_. It was nextbest. Mary, does it seem very _awful_ quiet here to you?"

"Awful. I never heard anything like it in my life. I'm going to letsomething drop and make a noise. " She dropped a tin trumpet, but itfell on the thick rug, and they scarcely heard it. 

The front gate clicked softly, and the Father came striding up thewalk, whistling exaggeratedly. He had ridden down to the corner withthe Boy. 

"Well, well, well, " he said; "now I shall go to work. I'm going up tomy den, girls, and I don't want to be called away for anything oranybody lower than a President or the minister. This is my first goodchance to work for ten years. "

Which showed how old the Boy was. He was rather young to go off aloneon a journey, but a neighbor half a mile down the glary white roadwas going his way, and would take him in charge. The neighbor waslame, and the Boy thought he was going to take charge of theneighbor. It was as well. Nobody had undeceived him. 

In a little over half an hour--three-quarters at most--the trail ofthe Boy was wiped out. Then the Patient Aunt and the Mother sat downpeacefully and undisturbed to their sewing. Everything was veryspruce and cleared up. The Mother was thinking of that, and of howvery, very still it was. She wished the Patient Aunt would begin tosing, or a door would slam somewhere. 

"Dear me!" she thought, with a tremulous little smile, "here I amwanting to hear a door slam already! Any one wouldn't think I'd had aspecial set of door nerves for years!" She started in to rockbriskly. There used to be a board that creaked by the west window. Why didn't it creak now? The Mother tried to make it. 

"Mary, " she cried, suddenly and sharply--"_Mary!_"

"Mercy! Well, what is it, my dear? Is the house afire, or anything?"

"Why don't you talk, and not sit there as still as a post? Youhaven't said a word for half an hour. "

"Why, so I haven't, --or you either, for that matter. I thought wewere sitting here enjoying the calm. Doesn't it look too lovely andfixed-up for anything, Bess? Seems like Sunday. _Don't_ you wishsomebody would call before we get stirred up again?"

"There's time enough. We sha'n't get stirred up again for a week, "sighed the Mother. She seemed suddenly to remember, as a new thing, that weeks held seven days apiece; days, twenty-four hours. Thelittle old table at school repeated itself to her mind. Then sheremembered how the Boy said it. She saw him toeing the stripe in thecarpet before her; she heard his high sweet sing-song:

"Sixty sec-unds make a min-it. Sixty min-its make a nour. Sixty hoursmake--no; I mean twenty-four hours--make a d-a-a-y. "

That was the way the Boy said it--God bless the Boy! The Mother gotup abruptly. 

"I think I will go up and call on William, " she said, unsteadily. ThePatient Aunt nodded gravely. "But he doesn't like to be interrupted, you know, " she reminded, thinking of the Boy's interruptions. 

Up-stairs, the Father said "Come in, " with remarkable alacrity. Helooked up from his manuscripts and welcomed her. The sheets, tosseduntidily about the table were mostly blank ones. 

"Well, dear?" the little Mother said, with a question in her voice. 

"Not at all;--_bad_, " he answered, gloomily. "I haven't written aword yet, Bess. At this rate, how soon will my new book be out? It'sso confoundedly still--"

"Yes, dear, I know, " the Mother said, hastily. Then they both gazedout of the window, and saw the Boy's little, rough-coated, ugly dogmoping under the Boy's best-beloved tree. The Boy had pleaded hard tobe allowed to take the dog on the journey. They both remembered thatnow. 

"He's lonesome, " murmured the Mother, but she meant that they twowere. And they had thought it would be such a rest and relief! Butthen, you remember, the Boy had never been away before, and he wasonly ten. 

So one day and one more after it dragged by. Two from seven leavesfive. The Mother secretly despaired. The second night, after theothers were asleep, she stole around the house and strewed the Boy'sthings about in all the rooms; but she could not make them look atease. Nevertheless, she let them lie, and, oddly enough, no oneappeared to see them next morning. All the family made fine pretenceof being cheerful, and spoke often of the quietude and peace--howrestful it was; how they had known beforehand that it would be so, without the whooping, whistling, tramping, slamming Boy. 

"So relieving to the nerves, " the Patient Aunt said. 

"So soothing, " murmured the Mother, sadly. 

"So confoundedly nice and still!" the Father muttered in his beard. "Haven't had such a chance to work for ten years. " But he did notwork. The third day he said he must take a little run to the cityto--to see his publishers, you know. There were things that neededlooking after;--if the Mother would toss a few things into his grip, he'd be off;--back in a few days, of course. And so he went. It was arelief to the Mother, and a still further one when, on the fourthday, the Patient Aunt went away on a little visit to--to somefriends. 

"I'm glad they're gone, " nodded the little Mother, decisively, "for Icouldn't have stood it another day--_not another day!_ Now _I'm_going away myself. I suppose I should have gone anyway, but it's muchpleasanter not to have them know. They would both of them havelaughed. What do _they_ know about being a Mother and having yourlittle Boy away? Oh yes, they can laugh and be relieved--andrested--and soothed! It's mothers whose hearts break withlonesomeness--mothers and ugly little dogs. " She took the mopinglittle beast up in her lap and stroked his rough coat. 

"You shall go too, " she whispered. "You can't wait three days more, either, can you? It would have killed you, too, wouldn't it? We areglad those other people went away, aren't we? Now we'll go to theBoy. "

Early the next morning they went. The Mother thought she had neverbeen so happy before in her life, and the ugly little beast yelpedwith anticipative joy. In a little--a very little--while, now, theywould hear the Boy shout--see him caper--feel his hard little palmson their faces. They would see the trail of the Boy over everything;not a make-believe, made-up trail, but the real, littered, _Boy_thing. 

"I hope those other two people are enjoying their trips. _We_ are, aren't we?" cried the happy Mother, hugging the little ugly dog inher arms. "And they won't know;--they can't laugh at us. We'll neverlet them know we couldn't bear it another minute, will we? The Boysha'n't tell on us. "

The place where the Boy was visiting was quite a long way from therailroad station, but they trudged to it gayly, jubilantly. While yeta good way off they heard the Boy and came upon his trail. The littledog nearly went into fits with frantic joy at the cap he found in thepath, but the Mother went straight on to meet the little shoutingvoice in her ears. Half-way to it she saw the Boy. But wait. Who wasthat with him? And that other one, laughing in his beard? If therehad been time to be surprised--but she only brushed them both asideand caught up the Boy. The Boy--the Boy--the Boy again! She kissedhim all over his freckled, round little face. She kissed his hair andhis hands and his knees. 

"Look out; he's wiping them off!" laughed the Patient Aunt. "But yousee he didn't wipe mine off. "

"You didn't kiss me. You darsn't. You ain't my mother, " panted theBoy, between the kisses. He could not keep up with them with the backof his brown little hand. 

"But _I_ am, dear. I'm your mother, " cooed the Mother, proud ofherself. 

After a while she let him go because she pitied him. Then she stoodup, stern and straight, and demanded things of these other two. 

"How came you here, Mary? I thought you were going on a visit. Isthis the way you see your publishers, William?"

"I--I couldn't wait, " murmured the Impatient Aunt. "I wanted to hearhim shout. You know how that is, Bess. " But there was no apology inthe Father's tone. He put out his hand and caught the Boy as hedarted past, and squared him about, with his sturdy little front tohis mother. The Father was smiling in a tender way. 

"He is my publisher, " he said. "I would rather he published my bestworks than any one else. He will pay the highest royalty. "

And the Mother, when she slipped across to them, kissed not the Boyalone, but them both. 

The next day they took the Boy back in triumph, the three of them andthe little dog, and after that there was litter and noise and joy asof old. 

Chapter III

The Adopted

The Enemy's chin just reached comfortably to thetop fence-rail, and there it rested, while above it peered a pair ofround blue eyes. It is not usual for an enemy's eyes to be so roundand blue, nor an enemy's chin to reach so short a distance from theground. 

"She's watching me, " Margaret thought; "she wants to see if I've gotfar as she has. 'Fore I'd lean my chin on folks's gates and watch'em!"

"She knows I'm here, " reflected the Enemy, "just as well as anything. 'Fore I'd peek at people out o' the ends o' my eyes!"

[Illustration: 'Fore I'd lean my chin on folks's gates and watch 'em!]

Between the two, a little higher than their heads, tilted a motherlybird on a syringa twig. 

"Ter-wit, ter-wee, --pit-ee, pit-ee!" she twittered under her breath. And it did seem a pity to be quarrellers on a day in May, with theapple buds turning as pink as pink!

"I sha'n't ever tell her any more secrets, " Margaret mused, rathersadly, for there was that beautiful new one aching to be told. 

"I sha'n't ever skip with her again, " the Enemy's musings randrearily, and the arm she had always put round Margaret when theyskipped felt lonesome and--and empty. And there was that lovely newlevel place to skip in!

"Pit-ee! Pit-ee!" sang softly the motherly bird. 

It had only been going on a week of seven days. It was exactly a weekago to-day it began, while they were making the birthday presentstogether, Margaret sitting in this very chair and Nell--the Enemysitting on the toppest door-step. Who would have thought it wascoming? There was nothing to warn--no thunder in the sky, no littlemother-bird on the syringa bush. It just _came_--oh, hum!

"I'm ahead!" the Enemy had suddenly announced, waving her book-mark. She had got to the "h" in her Mother, and Margaret was only finishing_her_ capital "M. " They were both working "Honor thy Mother that thydays may be long, " on strips of cardboard for their mothers'birthdays, which, oddly enough, came very close together. Of coursethat wasn't exactly the way it was in the Bible, but they had agreedit was better to leave "thy Father" out because it wasn't hisbirthday, and they had left out "the land which the Lord thy Godgiveth" because there wasn't room for it on the cardboard. 

"I'm ahead!"

"That's because I'm doing mine the carefulest, " Margaret hadretorted, promptly. "There aren't near so many hunchy places inmine. "

"Well, I don't care; my _mother's_ the best-looking, if her book-markisn't!" in triumph. "Her hair curls, and she doesn't have to wearglasses. "

Margaret's wrath had flamed up hotly. Mother's eyes were so shiny andtender behind the glasses, and her smooth brown hair was so soft! Thelove in Margaret's soul arose and took up arms for Mother. 

"I love mine the best, so there!--so there!--_so there!_" she cried. But side by side with the love in her soul was the secretconsciousness of how very much the Enemy loved _her_ mother, too. Now, sitting sewing all alone, with the Enemy on the other side ofthe fence, Margaret knew she had not spoken truly then, but therankling taunt of the curls that Mother hadn't, and the glasses thatshe had, justified her to herself. She would never, never take itback, so there!--so there!--_so there!_

"She's only got to the end o' her 'days, '--I can see clear fromhere, " soliloquized the Enemy, with awakening exultation. For theEnemy's "days" were "long, "--she had finished her book-mark. Thelonging to shout it out--"I've got mine done!"--was so intense withinher that her chin lost its balance on the fence-rail and she jarreddown heavily on her heels. So close related are mind and matter. 

Margaret resorted to philosophic contemplation to shut out the memoryof the silent on-looker at the fence. She had swung aboutdiscourteously "back to" her. "I guess, " contemplated Margaret, "mydays 'll be long enough in the land! I guess so, for I honor mymother enough to live forever! That makes me think--I guess I bettergo in and kiss her good-night for to-night when she won't be athome. "

It was mid-May and school was nearly over. The long summer vacationstretched endlessly, lonesomely, ahead of Margaret. Last summer ithad been so different. A summer vacation with a friend right close toyou all the time, skipping with you and keeping house with you andtelling all her secrets to you, is about as far away as--as China isfrom an _Enemy_ 'cross the fence! Oh, hum! some vacations are sosplendid and some are so un-splendid!

It did not seem possible that anything drearier than this couldhappen. Margaret would not have dreamed it possible. But a little wayfarther down Lonesome Road waited something a great deal worse. Itwas waiting for Margaret behind the schoolhouse stone-wall. The verynext day it jumped out upon her. 

Usually at recess Nell--the Enemy--and Margaret had gone wanderingaway together with their arms around each other's waist, as happy asanything. But for a week of recesses now they had gone wandering inopposite directions--the Enemy marching due east, Margaret due west. The stone-wall stretched away to the west. She had found a nicelonesome little place to huddle in, behind the wall, out of sight. Itwas just the place to be miserable in. 

"I know something!" from one of a little group of gossipers on theoutside of the wall. "She needn't stick her chin out an' not come an'play with us. She's _nothing but an adopted!_"

"Oh!--a what?" in awestruck chorus from the listeners. "Say it again, Rhody Sharp. "

"An adopted--that's all she is. I guess nobody but an adopted need togo trampin' past when we invite her to play with us! I guess we'regood as she is an' better, too, so there!"

Margaret in her hidden nook heard with a cold terror creeping overher and settling around her heart. It was so close now that shebreathed with difficulty. If--supposing they meant--

"Rhody Sharp, you're fibbing! I don't believe a single word you say!"sprang forth a champion valiantly. "She's dreadfully fond of hermother--just _dreadfully!_"

"She doesn't know it, " promptly returned Rhody Sharp, her voicestabbing poor Margaret's ear like a sharp little sword. "They'rekeeping it from her. My gran'mother doesn't believe they'd ought to. She says--"

But nobody cared what Rhody Sharp's gran'mother said. A clatter ofshocked little voices burst forth into excited, pitying discussion ofthe unfortunate who was nothing but an adopted. One of their ownnumber! One they spelled with and multiplied with and said thecapitals with every day! That they had invited to come and play withthem--an' she'd stuck her chin out!

"Why! Why, then she's a--orphan!" one voice exclaimed. "Really an'honest she is--an' she doesn't know it!"

"Oh my, isn't it awful!" another voice. "Shouldn't you think she'dhide her head--I mean, if she knew?"

It was already hidden. Deep down in the sweet, moist grass--a littleheavy, uncrowned, terror-smitten head. The cruel voices kept on. 

"It's just like a disgrace, isn't it? Shouldn't you s'pose it wouldfeel that way if 'twas you?"

"Think o' kissin' your mother good-night an' it's not bein' yourmother?"

"Say, Rhody Sharp--all o' you--look here! Do you suppose that's whyher mother--I mean she that _isn't_--dresses her in checked aperns?That's what orphans--"

The shorn head dug deeper. A soft groan escaped Margaret's lips. Thisvery minute, now while she crouched in the grass, --oh, if she put outher hands and felt she would feel the checks! She had been to anorph--to a place once with Moth--with _Her_ and seen the apronsherself. They were all--all checked. 

At home, folded in a beautiful pile, there were all the others. Therewas the pink-checked one and the brown-checked one and the prettiestone of all, the one with teenty little white checks marked off withbuff. The one she should feel if she put out her hand was ablue-checked. 

Margaret drove her hands deep into the matted grass; she would notput them out. It was--it was terrible! Now she understood it all. Sheremembered--things. They crowded--with capital T's, Things, --up toher and pointed their fingers at her, and smiled dreadful smiles ather, and whispered to one another about her. They sat down on her andjounced up and down, till she gasped for breath. 

The teacher's bell rang crisply and the voices changed to scamperingfeet. But Margaret crouched on in the sweet, moist grass behind thewall. She stayed there a week--a month--a year, --or was it only tillthe night chill stole into her bones and she crept away home?

[Illustration: She stayed there a week--a month--a year]

She and Nell--she and the Enemy--had been so proud to have apronsjust alike and cut by the same dainty pattern. But now if sheknew--if the Enemy knew! How ashamed it would make her to have on onelike--like an adopted's! How she'd wish hers was stripes!Perhaps--oh, perhaps she would think it was fortunate that she _was_an enemy now. 

But the worst Things that crowded up and scoffed and gibed were notThings that had to do with enemies. The worst-of-all Things had to dowith a little, tender woman with glasses on--whose hair didn't curl. Those Things broke Margaret's heart. 

"Now you know why She makes you make the bed over again when it'swrinkly, " gibed one Thing. 

"And why she makes you mend the holes in your stockings, " anotherThing. 

"She doesn't make me do the biggest ones!" flashed Margaret, hotly, but she could not stem the tide of Things. It swirled in. 

"Perhaps now you see why She makes you hem towels and wipe dishes--"

"And won't let you eat two pieces of pie--"

"Or one piece o' fruit-cake--"

"Maybe you remember now the times she's said, 'This is no littledaughter of mine'?"

Margaret turned sharply. "That was only because I was naughty, " shepleaded, strickenly, but she knew in her soul it wasn't "onlybecause. " She knew it was _because_. The terror within her wasgrowing more terrible every moment. 

Then came shame. Like the evilest of the evil Things it had beenlurking in the background waiting its turn, --it was its turn now. Margaret stood quite still, _ashamed_. She could not name thestrange feeling, for she had never been ashamed before, but she satthere a piteous little figure in the grip of it. It was awful to beonly nine and feel like that! To shrink from going home past Mrs. Streeter's and the minister's and the Enemy's!--oh, most of all pastthe Enemy's!--for fear they'd look out of the window and say, "Theregoes an adopted!" Perhaps they'd point their fingers. --Margaretclosed her eyes dizzily and saw Mrs. Streeter's plump one and theminister's lean one and the Enemy's short brown one, all pointing. She could feel something burning her on her forehead, --it was"Adopted, " branded there. 

The Enemy was worst. Margaret crept under the fence just before shegot to the Enemy's house and went a weary, roundabout way home. Shecould not bear to have this dearest Enemy see her in her disgrace. 

Moth--She That had Been--would be wondering why Margaret was late. Ifshe looked sober out of her eyes and said, "This can't be my littlegirl, can it?" then Margaret would _know for certain_. That would bethe final proof. 

The chimney was in sight now, --now the roof, --now the kitchen door, and She That Had Been was in it! She was shading her eyes and lookingfor the little girl that wasn't hers. A sob rose in the little girl'sthroat, but she tramped steadily on. It did not occur to her tosnatch off her hat and wave it, as little girls that belonged did. She had done it herself. 

The kitchen door was very near indeed now. It did not seem to beMargaret that was moving, but the kitchen door. It seemed to becoming to meet her and bringing with it a dear slender figure. Shelooked up and saw the soberness in its dear eyes. 

"This can't be my little girl, can--" but Margaret heard no more. With a muffled wail she fled past the slender figure, up-stairs, thatshe did not see at all, to her own little room. On the bed she layand felt her heart break under her awful little checked apron. Fornow she knew for certain. 

Two darknesses shut down about her, and in the heart-break of one sheforgot to be afraid of the other. She had always before been afraidof the night-dark and imagined creepy steps coming along the hall andinto the door. The things she imagined now were dreadfuler than that. This new dark was so much darker!

They thought she was asleep and let her lie there on her little bedalone. By-and-by would be time enough to probe gently for thechildish trouble. Perhaps she would leave it behind her in her sleep. 

Out-of-doors suddenly a new sound rose shrill above the crickets andthe frogs. It was the Enemy singing "Glory, glory, hallelujah. " Thatwas the last straw. Margaret writhed deeper into the pillows. Sheknew what the rest of it was--"Glory, glory, hallelujah, 'tisn't me!_My_ soul goes marching on!" She was out there singing thata-purpose!

In her desperate need for some one to lay her trouble to, Margaret"laid it to" the Enemy. A sudden, bitter, unreasoning resentment tookpossession of her. If there hadn't been an Enemy, there wouldn't havebeen a trouble. Everything would have been beautiful and--andrespectable, just as it was before. _She_ would have been out theresinging "Glory, glory hallelujah, " too. 

"She's to blame--I hate her!" came muffledly from the pillows. "Oh, Ido!--I can't help it, I do! I'm always going to hate her forevermore!She needn't have--"

Needn't have what? What had the little scape-goat out there in thetwilight done? But Margaret was beyond reasoning now. "Mine enemyhath done it, " was enough for her. If she lived a thousand years--ifshe lived _two_ thousand--she would never speak to the Enemyagain, --never forgive her, --never put her into her prayer again amongthe God blesses. 

A plan formulated itself after a while in the dark little room. Itwas born of the travail of the child's soul. Something must bedone--there was something she would do. She began it at once, huddledup against the window to catch the failing light. She would pin it toher pin-cushion where they would find it after--after she was gone. Did folks ever mourn for an Adopted? In her sore heart Margaretyearned to have them mourn. 

"I have found it out, " she wrote with her trembling littlefingers. "I don't suppose its wicked becaus I couldent help being onebut it is orful. It breaks your hart to find youre one all of asuddin. If I had known before, I would have darned the big holes too. Ime going away becaus I canot bare living with folks I havent anyright to. The stik pin this is pined on with is for Her That WasentEver my Mother for I love her still. When this you see remember methe rose is red the violet blue sugger is sweet and so are you. 

 "Margaret. "

She pinned it on tremblingly and then crept back to bed. Perhapsshe went to sleep, --at any rate, quite suddenly there were voices ather door--_Her_ voice and--His. She did not stir, but lay andlistened to them. 

"Dear child! Wouldn't you wake her up, Henry? What do you supposecould have happened?" That was the voice that used to be Mother's. It made Margaret feel thrilly and homesick. 

"Something at school, probably, dear, --you mustn't worry. All sortsof little troubles happen at school. " The voice that used to be herFather's. 

"I know, but this must have been a big one. If you had seen herlittle face, Henry! If she were Nelly, I should think somebody hadbeen telling her--about her origin, you know--"

Margaret held her breath. Nelly was the Enemy, but what was anorigin? This thing that they were saying--hark?

"I've always expected Nelly to find out that way--it would be so muchkinder to tell her at home. You know it would, Henry, instead ofletting her hear it from strangers and get her poor little heartbroken. Henry, if God hadn't given us a precious little child of ourown and we had ever adopted--"

Margaret dashed off the quilts and leaped to the floor with a cry ofecstasy. The anguish--the shame--the cruel gibing Things--were leftbehind her; they had slid from her burdened little heart at the firstglorious rush of understanding; they would never come back, --nevercome back, --never come back to Margaret! Glory, glory, hallelujah, 'twasn't her! _Her_ soul went marching on!

The two at the door suffered an unexpected, an amazing onslaught froma flying little figure. Its arms were out, were gathering them bothin, --were strangling them in wild, exultant hugs. 

"Oh! Oh, you're mine! I'm yours! We're each other's! I'm not anAdopted any more! I thought I was, and I wasn't! I was going away anddie--oh, oh, oh!"

Then Margaret remembered the Enemy, and in the throes of her pity theenmity was swallowed up forever. The instant yearning that welled upin her to put her arms around the poor real Adopted almost stifledher. She slid out of the two pairs of big tender arms and scurriedaway like a hare. She was going to find Nelly and love her--oh, loveher enough to make up! She would give her the coral beads she hadalways admired; she would let her be mistress and _she'd_ be maidwhen they kept house, --she'd let her have the frosting half of alltheir cake and _all_ the raisins. 

"I'll let her wear the spangly veil when we dress up--oh, poor, poorNelly!" Margaret cried softly as she ran. "And the longest trail. She may be the richest and have the most children--I'd _rather_. "

There did not seem anything possible and beloved that she would notlet Nelly do. She took agitated little leaps through the softdarkness, sending on ahead her yearning love in a tender little call:"Nelly! Nelly!"

She could never be too tender--too generous--to Nelly, to try to makeup. And all her life she would take care of her and keep her fromfinding out. She shouldn't find out! When they were both, oh, veryold, she would still be taking care of Nelly like that. 

"Nelly! Nelly!"

If she could only think of some Great Thing she could do, thatwould--would _hurt_ to do! And then she thought. She stopped quitesuddenly in her impetuous rush, stilled by the Greatness of it. 

"I'll let her love her mother the best, " whispered Margaret to thestars, --"so there!"

Chapter IV

Bobby Unwelcome

Bobby had learned U that day in school, and hestrutted home beside his nurse, Olga, with conscious relief in theswing of his sturdy legs. There was a special reason why Bobby feltrelieved to get to U. He glanced up, up, up, sidewise, at thenon-committal face so far above him, and wondered in his anxiouslittle way whether or not it would be prudent to speak of the specialreason now. Olga _had_ times, Bobby had discovered, when you dassentspeak of things, and it looked--yes, cert'nly--as though she washaving 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 plunged in, hurriedly. 

"Mercy! What iss it the child iss talking about!"

There! wasn't she having one? Didn't she usually say "Mercy!" likethat when she was?

"That letter, you know--U. The one in the middle o' my name, " Bobbyhastened on--"right prezac'ly in the middle of it. I wish"--but hecaught himself up with a jerk. It didn't seem best, after all, toconsult Olga now--not now, while she was having one. Betterwait--only, dear, dear, dear, how long he had waited a'ready!

It had not occurred to Bobby to consult his mother. They two were notintimately acquainted, and naturally he felt shy. 

Bobby's mother was very young and beautiful. He had seen her dressedin a wondrous soft white dress once, with little specks of shinythings burning on her bare throat, and ever since he had known whatangels look like. 

There were reasons enough why Bobby seldom saw his mother. The housewas very big, and her room so far away from his;--that was onereason. Then he always went to bed, and got up, and ate his mealsbefore she did. 

There was another reason why he and the beautiful young mother didnot know each other very well, but even Olga had never explained thatone. Bobby had that ahead of him to find out, --poor Bobby! Some onehad called him Fire Face once at school, but the kind-hearted teacherhad never let it happen again. 

At home, in the great empty house, the mirrors were all high up outof reach, and in the nursery there had never been any at all. Bobbyhad never looked at himself in a mirror. Of course he had seenhimself up to his chin--dear, yes--and admired his own littlestraight legs often enough, and doubled up his little round arms tohunt for his "muscle. " In a quiet, unobtrusive way Bobby was ratherproud of himself. He had to be--there was no one else, you see. Andeven at six, when there is so little else to do, one can put inconsiderable time regarding one's legs and arms. 

"I guess you don't call _those_ bow-legged legs, do you, Olga?" hehad exulted once, in an unguarded moment when he had been thinking ofCleggy Munro's legs at school. "I guess you call those prettystraight-up-'n'-down ones!" And the hard face of the old nurse hadsuddenly softened in a strange, pleasant way, and for the one onlytime that he could remember, Olga had taken Bobby in her arms andkissed him. 

"They're beautiful legs, that iss so, " Olga had said, but she hadn'tbeen looking at them when she said it. She had been looking straightinto his face. The look hurt, too, Bobby remembered. He did not knowwhat pity was, but it was that that hurt. 

The night after he learned U at school Bobby decided to hazardeverything and ask Olga what the one in his name stood for. He couldnot put it off any longer. 

"Olga, what does the U in the middle o' my name stand for?" he brokeout, suddenly, while he was being unbuttoned for bed. "I know it's aU, but I don't know a U-_what_. I've 'cided I won't go to bed tillI've found out. "

Things had gone criss-cross. The old Norwegian woman was not in agood humor. 

"Unwelcome--that iss what it must stand for, " she laughedunpleasantly. 

"Bobby Unwelcome!" Bobby laughed too. Then a piteous littlesuspicion crept into his mind and began to grow. He turned upon Olgasharply. "What does Unwelcome mean?" he demanded. 

"Eh? Iss it not enough plain to you? Well, not wanted--that iss whatit means then. "

"Not wanted, --not wanted. " Bobby repeated the words over and over tohimself, not quite satisfied yet. They sounded bad--oh, very; butperhaps 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 theymeant--Bobby gave a faint gasp, and suddenly his thoughts turneddizzily round and round one terrible pivot--"not wanted. " He sprangaway out of the nurse's hands and darted down the long, bright hallto his mother's room. She was being dressed for a ball, and the roomwas pitilessly light. She sat at a table with a little mirror beforeher. Suddenly another face appeared in it with hers--a little, scarred, red face, stamped deep with childish woe. The contrastappalled her. 

Bobby was not looking into the glass, but into her beautiful face. 

"Is that what it stands for?" he demanded, breathlessly. "She saidso. Did she lie?"

"Robert! For Heaven's sake, child, stand away! You are tearing mylace. 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. Standfarther off. Don't you see, child?"

"She said the U in the middle o' my name stood for Not Wanted. Doesit? Tell me quick. Does it?"

The contrast of the two faces in her mirror hurt her like a blow. Itbrought back all the disappointment and the wounded vanity of thattime, six years ago, when they had shown her the tiny, disfiguredface 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. Theboy's eyes followed hers to the mirror, and in that brief, awfulspace he tasted of the Tree of Knowledge. 

With a little cry he stumbled backward into the lighted hall. Therewas a slip, and the sound of a soft little body bounding down thepolished stairs. 

A good while afterwards Bobby opened his eyes wonderingly. Thereseemed to be people near him, but he could not see them at alldistinctly. A faint, wonderful perfume crept to him. 

"It's very dark, isn't it?" he said, in surprise. "I can smell abeautiful smell, but I can't see it. Why, why! It isn't you, isit?--not my mother? Why, I wasn't 'specting to find-- Oh, I moremberit now--I morember it all! Then I'm glad it's dark. I shouldn't wantit to be as light as _that_ again. Oh no! oh no! I shouldn't want herto see-- Why, she's crying! What is she crying for?"

He put out a small weak hand and groped towards the sound of bittersobbing. Instinctively he knew it was she. 

"I'm very sorry. I guess I know what the matter is. It's me, and I'mvery sorry. I never knew it before; no, I never. I'm glad it's darknow--aren't you?--'count o' that. Only I'm a little speck sorry itisn't light enough for you to see my legs. They're very straightones--you can ask Olga. You might feel of 'em if you thought 'twouldhelp 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. Butthen of course they aren't like a--like a--a _face_. They're onlylegs. 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 hemade 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, youneedn't. _That's_ all right! After--after I looked in _there_, ofcourse I knew 'bout how it was. I wish you wouldn't cry. It jogglesmy--my heart. "

But it was his little broken body that it joggled. The mother foundit out, and stopped sobbing by a mighty effort. She drew very closeto Bobby in the dark that was light to every one else, and laid herwet cheek against the little, scarred, red face. The motion was sogentle that it scarcely stirred the yellow tendrils of his soft hair. An infinite tenderness was born out of her anguish. There was lefther a merciful moment to be a mother in. Bobby forgot his pain in thebliss of it. 

"Why, why, this is very nice!" he murmured, happily. "I never knewit would be as nice as this--I never knew! But I'm glad it'sdark, --aren't you? I'd rather it would--be----dark. "

And then it grew altogether dark for Bobby, and the little faceagainst the new-born, heart-broken mother's cheek felt cold, andwould not warm with all her passionate kisses. 

Chapter V

The Little Girl Who Should Have Been a Boy

There was so much time for the Little Girl who should have been aBoy to ponder over it. She was only seven, but she grew quite skilfulin pondering. After lessons--and lessons were over at eleven--therewas the whole of the rest of the day to wander, in her little, desolate way, in the gardens. She liked the fruit-garden best, andthe Golden Pippin tree was her choicest pondering-place. There wasnever any one there with her. The Little Girl who should have been aBoy was always alone. 

"You see how it is. I've told you times enough, " she communed withherself, in her quaint, unchildish fashion. "You are a mistake. Youwent and was born a Girl, when they wanted a Boy--oh, my, how theywanted a Boy! But the moment they saw you they knew it was all upwith them. You wasn't wicked, really, --I _guess_ it wasn't wicked;sometimes I can't be certain, --but you did go and make such a sillymistake! Look at me, --why didn't you know how much they wanted a Boyand _didn't_ want you? Why didn't you be brave and go up to the HeadAngel, and say, 'Send me to another place; for pity sake don't sendme _there_. They want a Little Boy. ' Why didn't you--oh, why didn'tyou? It would have saved such a lot of trouble!"

The Little Girl who should have been a Boy always sighed at thatpoint. The sigh made a period to the sad little speech, for afterthat she always sat in the long grass under the Golden Pippin treeand rocked herself back and forth silently. There was no use insaying anything more after that. It had all been said. 

It was a great, beautiful estate, to east and west and north andsouth of her, and the Boy the Head Angel should have sent instead ofthe sad Little Girl was to have inherited it all. And there was asplendid title that went with the estate. In the sharp mind of theLittle Girl nothing was hidden or undiscovered. 

"It seems a pity to have it wasted, " she mused, wistfully, with hergrave wide eyes on the beautiful green expanses all about her, "justfor a mistake like that, --I mean like _me_--too. You'd think the HeadAngel would be ashamed of himself, wouldn't you? He prob'ly is. "

The Shining Mother--it was thus the Little Girl who should have beena Boy had named her, on account of her sparkling eyes and wonderfulsparkling gowns; everything about the Shining Mother sparkled--theShining Mother was almost always away. So was the Ogre. Somewhereoutside--clear outside--of the green expanses there was a gay, frivolous world where almost always they two stayed. 

The Little Girl called her father the Ogre for want of a better name. She was never quite satisfied with the name, but it had to answertill she found another. Prob'ly ogres didn't wear an eye-glass in oneof their eyes, or flip off the sweet little daisy heads with cruelcanes, but they were oldish and scare-ish, and of course theywouldn't have noticed you any, even if you were their Little Girl. Ogres would have prob'ly wanted a Boy too, and that's the way they'dhave let you see your mistake. So, till she found a better name, theLittle Girl who had made the mistake called her father the Ogre. Shewas very proud and fond of the Shining Mother, but she was a littleafraid of the Ogre. After all, one feeling mattered about as much asthe other. 

"It doesn't hurt you any to be afraid, when you do it all alone byyourself, " she reasoned, "and it doesn't do you any good to be fond. It only amuses you, " she added, with sad wisdom. As I said, she wasonly seven, but she was very old indeed. 

So the time went along until the weeks piled up into months. Thesummer she was eight, the Little Girl could not stand it any longer. She decided that something must be done. The Shining Mother and theOgre were coming back to the green expanses. She had found that outat lessons. 

"And then they will have it all to go over again--all themiser'bleness of my not being a Boy, " the Little Girl thought, sadly. "And I don't know whether they can stand it or not, but _I_ can't. "

A wave of infinite longing had swept over the shy, sensitive soul ofthe Little Girl who should have been a Boy. One of two things musthappen--she must be loved, or die. So, being desperate, she resolvedto chance everything. It was under the Golden Pippin tree, rockingherself back and forth in the long grass, that she made her plans. Straight on the heels of them she went to the gardener's little boy. 

"Lend me--no, I mean give me--your best clothes, " she said, withgentle imperiousness. It was not a time to waste words. At best, thetime that was left to practise in was limited enough. 

"Your _best_ clothes, " she had said, realizing distinctly thatfustian and corduroy would not do. She was even a little doubtful ofthe best clothes. The gardener's little boy, once his mouth had shutand his legs come back to their locomotion, brought them at once. Ifthere was a suspicion of alacrity in his obedience towards the last, it escaped the thoughtful eyes of the Little Girl. Having always beena mistake, nothing more, how could she know that a boy's best clothesare not always his dearest possession? Now if it had been thethreadbare, roomy, easy little fustians, with their preciouspocket-loads, that she had demanded!

There were six days left to practise in--only six. How the LittleGirl practised! It was always quite alone by herself. She did it in asensible, orderly way, --the leaps and strides first, whoops next, whistle last. The gardener's little boy's best clothes she kepthidden in the long grass, under the Golden Pippin tree, and on thefourth day she put them on. Oh, the agony of the fourth day! She cameout of that practice period a wan, white, worn little thing thatshould _never_ have been a Boy. 

For it was heart-breaking work. Every instinct of the Little Girl'srebelled against it. It was terrible to leap and whoop and whistle;her very soul revolted. But it was life or death to her, and alwaysshe persevered. 

In those days lessons scarcely paid. They were only a pitifulmakeshift. The Little Girl lived only in her terrible practice hours. She could not eat or sleep. She grew thin and weak. 

"I don't look like me at all, " she told herself, on a chair beforeher mirror. "But that isn't the worst of it. I don't look like theBoy, either. Ugh! how I look! I wonder if the Angel would know me? Itwould be kind of dreadful not to have _anybody_ know you. Well, youwon't be _you_ when you're the Boy, so prob'ly it won't matter. "

On the sixth day--the last thing--she cut her hair off. She did itwith her eyes shut to give herself courage, but the snips of theshears broke her heart. The Little Girl had always loved her soft, shining hair. It had been like a beautiful thing apart from her, thatshe could caress and pet. She had made an idol of it, having nothingelse to love. 

When it was all shorn off she crept out of the room without openingher eyes. After that the gardener's little boy's best clothes cameeasier to her, she found. And she could whoop and leap and whistle alittle better. It was almost as if she had really made herself theBoy she should have been. 

Then the Shining Mother came, and the Ogre. The Little Girl--I meanthe Boy--was waiting for them, swinging her--his--feet from a highbranch of the Golden Pippin tree. He was whistling. 

"But I think I am going to die, " he thought, behind the whistle. "I'mcertain I am. I feel it coming on. "

Of course, after a little, there was a hunt everywhere for the LittleGirl. Even little girls cannot slip out of existence like that, undiscovered. The beautiful green expanses were hunted over and over, but only a gardener's little boy in his best clothes, whistlingfaintly, was found. He fell out of the Golden Pippin tree as thefield-servants went by, and they stopped to carry his limp littlefigure to the gardener's lodge. Then the hunt went forward again. TheShining Mother grew faint and sick with fear, and the Ogre strodeabout like one demented. It was hardly what was to be expected of theShining Mother and the Ogre. 

Towards night the mystery was partly solved. It was the ShiningMother who found the connecting threads. She found the little, jaggedlocks of soft, sweet hair. The Ogre came upon her sitting on thefloor among them, and the whiteness of her face terrified him. 

"I know--you need not tell me what has happened!" she said, scarcelyabove a whisper, as if in the presence of the dead. "A door in me hasopened, and I see it all--_all_, I tell you! We have never hadher, --and now, dear God in heaven, we have lost her!"

It was very nearly so. They could hardly know then how near it cameto being true. Link by link they came upon the little chain ofpitiful proofs. They found all the little, sweet, white girl-clothesfolded neatly by themselves and laid in a pile together, as if on analtar for sacrifice. If the Little Girl had written "Good-bye" in herchildish scrawl upon them, the Shining Mother would not have betterunderstood. So many things she was seeing beyond that open door. 

They found the Little Girl's dolls laid out like little, white-drapedcorpses in one of her bureau-drawers. The row of stolid little facesgazed up at them with the mystery of the Sphinx in all theirglittering eyes. It was the Shining Mother who shut the drawer, butfirst she kissed the faces. 

After all, the Ogre discovered the last little link of the chain. Hebrought it home in his arms from the gardener's lodge, and laid it onthe Little Girl's white bed. It was very still and pitiful and small. The took the gardener's little boy's best clothes off from it and puton the soft white night-gown of the Little Girl. Then, one on oneside and one on the other, they kept their long hard vigil. 

It was night when the Little Girl opened her eyes, and the firstthing they saw was the chairful of little girl-clothes the ShiningMother had set beside the bed. Then they saw the Shining Mother. Things came back to the Little Girl by slow degrees. But the look inthe Shining Mother's face--that did not come back. That had neverbeen there before. The Little Girl, in her wise, old way, understoodthat look, and gasped weakly with the joy and wonder of it. Oh, thejoy! Oh, the wonder!

"But I tried to be one, " she whispered after a while, a littlebewildered still. "I should have done it, if I hadn't died. Icouldn't help that; I felt it coming on. Prob'ly, though, I shouldn'thave made a very good one. "

The Shining Mother bent over and took the Little Girl in her arms. 

"Dear, " she whispered, "it was the Boy that died. I am glad he died. "

So, though the Ogre and the Shining Mother had not found their Boy, the Little Girl had found a father and mother. 

Chapter VI

The Lie

The Lie went up to bed with him. Russy didn't want it to, but itcrept in through the key-hole, --it must have been the key-hole, forthe door was shut the minute Metta's skirt had whisked through. Butone thing Russy had to be thankful for, --Metta didn't know it wasthere in the room. As far as that went, it was a kind-hearted Lie. But after Metta went away, --after she had put out the light and said"Pleasant dreams, Master Russy, an' be sure an' don't rollout, "--_after that!_

Russy snuggled deep down in the pillows and said he would go right tosleep; oh, right straight! He always had before. It made you forgetthe light was out, and there were queer, creaky night-noises allround your bed, --under it some of 'em; over by the bureau some of'em; and some of 'em coming creepy, cree-py up the stairs. You dugyour head deep down in the pillows, and the next thing you knew youwere asleep, --no, awake, and the noises were beautiful day-ones thatyou liked. You heard roosters crowing, and Mr. Vandervoort's cowscalling for breakfast, and, likely as not, some mother-birds singingduets with their husbands. Oh yes, it was a good deal the best way todo, to go right straight to sleep when Metta put the light out. 

But to-night it was different, for the Lie was there. You couldn't goto sleep with a Lie in the room. It was worse than creepy, creakynoises, --mercy, yes! You'd swap it for those quick enough and not aska single bit of "boot. " You almost _wanted_ to hear the noises. 

[Illustration: It was worse than creepy, creaky noises]

It came across the room. There was no sound, but Russy knew it wascoming well enough. He knew when it got up close to the side of thebed. Then it stopped and began to speak. It wasn't "out loud" and itwasn't a whisper, but Russy heard it. 

"Move over; I'm coming into bed with you, " the Lie said. "I hope youdon't think I'm going to sit up all night. Besides, I'm always scaredin the dark, --it runs in my family. The Lies are always afraid. They're not good sleepers, either, so let's talk. You begin--or shallI?"

"You, " moaned Russy. 

"Well, I say, this is great, isn't it! I like this house. I stayed atBarney Toole's last night and it doesn't begin with this. Barney'sfolks are poor, and there aren't any curtains or carpets oranything, --nor pillows on the bed. I never slept a wink at Barney's. I'm hoping I shall drop off here, after a while. It's a new place, and I'm more likely to in new places. You never slept with one o' myfamily before, did you?"

"No, " Russy groaned. "Oh no, I never before!"

"That's what I thought. I should have been likely to hear of it ifyou had. I was a little surprised, --I say, what made you haveanything to do with me. I was never more surprised in my life! They'dalways said: 'Well, you'll never get acquainted with that Russy Rand. He's another kind. ' Then you went and shook hands with me!"

"I had to. " Russy sat up in bed and stiffened himself forself-defence. "I had to! When Jeffy Vandervoort said that about_Her_, --well, I guess you'd have had to if they said things aboutyour _mother_--"

"I never had one. The Lies have a Father, that's all. Go ahead. "

"There isn't anything else, --I just _had_ to. "

"Tell what you said and what _he_ said. Go ahead. "

"You know all about--"

"Go ahead!"

Russy rocked himself back and forth in his agony. It was dreadful tohave to say it all over again. 

"Well, then, " doggedly, "Jeffy said _my_ mother never did, but hisdid--oh, always!"

"Did what--oh, always?"

Russy clinched his little round fingers till the bones cracked underthe soft flesh. 

"Kissed him good-night--went up to his room a-purpose to, an'--an'--tucked him in. Oh, always, he said. He said _mine_ neverdid. An' I said--"

"You said--go ahead!"

"I said she did, too, --oh--always, " breathed Russy in the awful dark. "I had to. When it's your mother, you have to--"

"I never had one, I told you! How do I know? Go on. "

He was driven on relentlessly. He had it all to go through with, andhe whispered the rest hurriedly to get it done. 

"I said she tucked me in, --came up a-purpose to, --an' always kissedme _twice_ (his only does once), an' always--called me--Dear. " Russyfell back in a heap on the pillows and sobbed into them. 

"My badness!"--anybody but a Lie would have said "my goodness, "--"butyou did do it up brown that time, didn't you! But I don't suppose hebelieved a word of it--you didn't make him believe you, did you?"

"He had to, " cried out Russy, fiercely. "He said I'd never lied tohim in my life--"

"Before;--yes, I know. "

Russy slipped out of bed and padded over the thick carpet towards theplace where the window-seat was in the daytime. But it wasn't there. He put out his hands and hunted desperately for it. Yes, there, --no, that was sharp and hard and hurt you. That must be the edge of thebureau. He tried again, for he must find it, --he must! He would notstay in bed with that Lie another minute. It crowded him, --ittortured him so. 

"This is it, " thought Russy, and sank down gratefully on thecushions. His bare feet scarcely touched toe-tips to the floor. Herehe would stay all night. This was better than--

"I'm coming, --which way are you? Can't you speak up?"

The Lie was coming, too! Suddenly an awful thought flashed acrossRussy's little, weary brain. What if the Lie would _always_ come, too? What if he could never get away from it? What if it slept withhim, walked with him, talked with him, _lived_ with him, --oh, always!

But Russy stiffened again with dogged courage. "I had to!" hethought. "I had to, --I had to, --I had to! When he said things about_Her_, --when it's your mother, --you have to. "

A great time went by, measureless by clock-ticks and aching littleheart-beats. It seemed to be weeks and months to Russy. Then he beganto feel a slow relief creeping over his misery, and he said tohimself the Lie must have "dropped off. " There was not a sound of itin the room. It grew so still and beautiful that Russy laughed tohimself in his relief. He wanted to leap to his feet and dance aboutthe room, but he thought of the sharp corners and hard edges ofthings in time. Instead, he nestled among the cushions of thewindow-seat and laughed on softly. Perhaps it was all over, --perhapsit wasn't asleep, but had gone away--to Barney Toole's, perhaps, where they regularly "put up" Lies, --and would never come back! Russygasped for joy. Perhaps when you'd never shaken hands with a Lie butonce in your life, and that time you _had_ to, and you'd borne it, anyway, for what seemed like weeks and months, --perhaps then theywent away and left you in peace! Perhaps you'd had punishment enoughthen. 

Very late Russy's mother came up-stairs. She was very tired, and herpretty young face in the frame of soft down about her opera-cloaklooked a little cross. Russy's father plodded behind more heavily. 

"The boy's room, Ellen?--just this once?" he pleaded in her ear. "Itwill take but a minute. "

"I am so tired, Carter! Well, if I must-- Why, he isn't in the bed!"

The light from the hall streamed in, showing it tumbled and tossed asif two had slept in it. But no one was in it now. The mother's littlecry of surprise sharpened to anxiety. 

"Where is he, Carter? Why don't you speak? He isn't here in bed, Itell you! Russy isn't here!"

"He has rolled out, --no, he hasn't rolled out. I'll light up--therehe is, Ellen! There's the little chap on the window-seat!"

"And the window is open!" she cried, sharply. She darted across tothe little figure and gathered it up into her arms. She had neverbeen frightened about Russy before. Perhaps it was the fright thatbrought her to her own. 

"He is cold, --his little night-dress is damp!" she said. Then herkisses rained down on the little, sleeping face. In his sleep, Russyfelt them, but he thought it was Jeffy's mother kissing Jeffy. 

"It feels good, doesn't it?" he murmured. "I don't wonder Jeffylikes it! If my mother kissed _me_-- I told Jeffy she did! It was aLie, but I had to. You have to, when they say things like that aboutyour _mother_. You have to say she kisses you--oh, always! She comes'way up-stairs every night a-purpose to. An' she tucks you in, an'she calls you--_Dear_. It's a Lie an' it 'most kills you, but youhave to say it. But it's perfectly awful afterwards. " He nestledagainst the soft down of her cloak and moaned as if in pain. "It'sawful afterwards when you have to sleep with the Lie. It'sperfectly--aw--ful--"

"Oh, Carter!" the mother broke out, for it was all plain to her. In aflash of agonized understanding the wistful little sleep-story wasfilled out in every detail. She understood all the tragedy of it. 

"Russy! Russy!" She shook him in her eagerness. "Russy, it's mykisses! _I'm_ kissing you! It isn't Jeffy's mother, --it's yourmother, Russy! Feel them!--don't you feel them on your forehead andyour hair and your little red lips? It's your mother kissing _you!_"

Russy opened his eyes. 

"Why! Why, so it is!" he said. 

"And calling you 'Dear, ' Russy! Don't you hear her? Dear boy, --_dear_little boy! You hear her, don't you, Russy--dear?"

"Why, yes!--_why!_"

"And tucking you into bed--like this, --_so!_ She's tucking in theblanket now, --and now the little quilt, Russy! That is what mothersare for--I never thought before--oh, I never thought!" She droppedher face beside his on the pillow and fell to kissing him again. Heheld his face quite still for the sweet, strange baptism. Thensuddenly he laughed out happily, wildly. 

"Then it isn't a Lie!" he cried, in a delirium of relief and joy. "It's true!"

Chapter VII

The Princess of Make-Believe

The Princess was washing dishes. On her feet she would barely havereached the rim of the great dish-pan, but on the soap-box she didvery well. A grimy calico apron trailed to the floor. 

"Now this golden platter I must wash _extry_ clean, " the Princesssaid. "The Queen is ve-ry particular about her golden platters. Lasttime, when I left one o' the corners--it's such a nextremely heavyplatter to hold--she gave me a scold--oh, I mean--I mean she tappedme a little love pat on my cheek with her golden spoon. "

It was a great, brown-veined, stoneware platter, and the arms of thePrincess ached with holding it. Then, in an unwary instant, itslipped out of her soapsudsy little fingers and crashed to the floor. Oh! oh! the Queen! the Queen! She was coming! The Princess heard hershrill, angry voice, and felt the jar of her heavy steps. There wasthe space of an instant--an instant is so short!--before the stormbroke. 

"You little limb o' Satan! That's my best platter, is it? Broke allto bits, eh? I'll break--" But there was a flurry of dingy apron anddingier petticoats, and the little Princess had fled. She did notstop till she was in her Secret Place among the willows. Her smalllean face was pale but undaunted. 

"Th-the Queen isn't feeling very well to-day, " she panted. "It'swash-day up at the Castle. She never enjoys herself on wash-days. Andthen that golden platter--I'm sorry I smashed it all to flinders!When the Prince comes I shall ask him to buy another. "

The Prince had never come, but the Princess waited for him patiently. She sat with her face to the west and looked for him to come throughthe willows with the red sunset light filtering across his hair. Thatwas the way the Prince was coming, though the time was not set. Itmight be a good while before he came, and then again--you never couldtell!

"But when he does, and we've had a little while to get acquainted, then I shall say to him, 'Hear, O Prince, and give ear to my--mypetition! For verily, verily, I have broken many golden platters andjasper cups and saucers, and the Queen, long live her! issore--sore--'"

The Princess pondered for the forgotten word. She put up a littlelean brown hand and rubbed a tingling spot on her temple--ah, not theQueen! It was the Princess--long live her!--who was "sore. "

"'I beseech thee, O Prince, ' I shall say, 'buy new golden plattersand jasper cups and saucers for the Queen, and then shall I verily, verily be--be--'"

Oh, the long words--how they slipped out of reach! The littlePrincess sighed rather wearily. She would have to rehearse thatspeech so many times before the Prince came. Suppose he cameto-night! Suppose she looked up now, this minute, towards the goldenwest and he was there, swinging along through the willow canestowards her!

But there was no one swinging along through the willows. The yellowlight flickered through--that was all. Somewhere, a long way off, sounded the monotonous hum of men's voices. Through the lace-work ofwillow twigs there showed the faintest possible blur of color. Downbeyond, in the clearing, the Castle Guards in blue jean blouses werepulling stumps. The Princess could not see their dull, passionlessfaces, and she was glad of it. The Castle Guards depressed her. Butthey were not as bad as the Castle Guardesses. _They_ were mostly oldwomen with bleared, dim eyes, and they wore such faded--silks. 

"_My_ silk dress is rather faded, " murmured the little Princesswistfully. She smoothed down the scant calico skirt with her brownlittle fingers. The patch in it she would not see. 

"I shall have to have the Royal Dress-maker make me another one soon. Let me see, --what color shall I choose? I'd _like_ my gold-coloredvelvet made up. I'm tired of wearing royal purple dresses all thetime, though of course I know they're appropriater. I wonder whatcolor the Prince would like best? I should rather choose that color. "

The Princess's little brown hands were clasped about one knee, andshe was rocking herself slowly back and forth, her eyes, wistful andwide, on the path the Prince would come. She was tired to-day and itwas harder to wait. 

"But when he comes I shall say, 'Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, Idid not know which color you would like to find me dressed--I meanarrayed--in, and so I beseech thee excuse--_pardon_, I mean--mineinfirmity. '"

The Princess was not sure of "infirmity, " but it sounded well. Shecould not think of a better word. 

"And then--I _think_ then--he will take me in his arms, and his facewill be all sweet and splendid like the Mother o' God's in thepicture, and he will whisper, --I don't think he will say it outloud, --oh, I'd rather not!--'Verily, Princess, ' he will whisper, 'Oh, verily, _verily_, thou hast found favor in my sight!' And that willmean that he doesn't care what color I am, for he--loves--me. "

Lower and lower sank the solemn voice of the Princess. Slower andslower rocked the little, lean body. The birds themselves stoppedsinging at the end. In the Secret Place it was very still. 

"Oh no, no, no, --not _verily!_" breathed the Princess, in soft awe. For the wonder of it took her breath away. She had never in her lifebeen loved, and now, at this moment, it seemed so near! She thoughtshe heard the footsteps of the Prince. 

They came nearer. The crisp twigs snapped under his feet. He waswhistling. 

"Oh, I can't look!--I can't!" gasped the little Princess, but sheturned her face to the west, --she had always known it would be fromthe west, and lifted closed eyes to his coming. When he got to theTwisted Willow she might dare to look, --to the Little Willow Twins, anyway. 

"And I shall know when he does, " she thought. "I shall know theminute!"

Her face was rapt and tender. The miracle she had made forherself, --the gold she had coined out of her piteous alloy, --was itnot come true at last?--Verily, verily?

Hush! Was the Prince not coming through the willows? And the sunshinewas trickling down on his hair! The Princess knew, though she did notlook. 

"He is at the Twisted Willow, " she thought. "_Now_ he is at theLittle Willow Twins. " But she did not open her eyes. She did notdare. This was a little different, she had never counted on beingafraid. 

The twigs snapped louder and nearer--now very near. The merry whistlegrew clearer, and then it stopped. 

"Hullo!"

Did princes say "hullo!" The Princess had little time to wonder, forhe was there before her. She could feel his presence in every fibreof her trembling little being, though she would not open her eyes forvery fear that it might be somebody else. No, no, it was the Prince!It was his voice, clear and ringing, as she had known it would be. She put up her hands suddenly and covered her eyes with them to makesurer. It was not fear now, but a device to put off a little longerthe delight of seeing him. 

"I say, hullo! Haven't you got any tongue?"

"Oh, verily, verily, --I mean hear, O Prince, I beseech, " she panted. The boy's merry eyes regarded the shabby small person in puzzledastonishment. He felt an impulse to laugh and run away, but his royalblood forbade either. So he waited. 

"You are the Prince, " the little Princess cried. "I've been waitingthe longest time, --but I knew you'd come, " she added, simply. "Haveyou got your velvet an' gold buckles on? I'm goin' to look in aminute, but I'm waiting to make it spend. "

The Prince whistled softly. "No, " he said then, "I didn't wear _them_clo'es to-day. You see, my mother--"

"The Queen, " she interrupted, "you mean the Queen?"

"You bet I do! She's a reg'lar-builter! Well, she don't like to haveme wearin' out my best clo'es every day, " he said, gravely. 

"No, " eagerly, "nor mine don't. Queen, I mean, --but she isn't amother, mercy, no! I only wear silk dresses every day, not my velvetones. This silk one is getting a little faded. " She released onehand to smooth the dress wistfully. Then she remembered her painfullypractised little speech and launched into it hurriedly. 

"Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not know which color you'dlike to find me dressed in--I mean _arrayed_. I beseech thee toexcuse--oh, _pardon_, I mean--"

But she got no further. She could endure the delay no longer, and hereyes flew open. 

She had known his step; she had known his voice. She knew his face. It was terribly freckled, and she had not expected freckles on theface of the Prince. But the merry, honest eyes were the Prince'seyes. Her gaze wandered downward to the home-made clothes and bare, brown legs, but without uneasiness. The Prince had explained abouthis clothes. Suddenly, with a shy, glad little cry, the Princess heldout her hands to him. 

The royal blood flooded the face of the Prince and filled in all thespaces between its little, gold-brown freckles. But the Prince heldout his hand to her. His lips formed for words and she thought he wasgoing to say, "Verily, Princess, thou hast found favor--"

"Le' 's go fishin', " the Prince said. 

Chapter VIII

The Promise

Murray was not as one without hope, for there wasthe Promise. The remembrance of it set him now to exulting, in anodd, restrained little way, where a moment ago he had beendesponding. He clasped plump, brown little hands around a plump, brown little knee and swayed gently this way and that. 

"Maybe she'll begin with my shoes, " Murray thought, and held his footquite still. He could almost feel light fingers unlacing the stubbedlittle shoe; Sheelah's fingers were rather heavy and not patient withknots. Hers would be patient--there are some things one is certainof. 

"When she unbuttons me, " Murray mused on, sitting absolutelymotionless, as if she were unbuttoning him now--"when she unbuttonsme I shall hold in my breath--this way, " though he could hardly haveexplained why. 

She had never unlaced or unbuttoned him. Always, since he was alittle, breathing soul, it had been Sheelah. It had never occurred tohim that he loved Sheelah, but he was used to her. All the motheringhe had ever experienced had been the Sheelah kind--thorough enough, but lacking something; Murray was conscious that it lacked something. Perhaps--perhaps to-night he should find out what. For to-night notSheelah, but his mother, was going to undress him and put him to bed. She had promised. 

It had come about through his unprecedented wail of grief at parting, when she had gone into the nursery to say good-bye, in her light, sweet way. Perhaps it was because she was to be gone all day; perhapshe was a little lonelier than usual. He was always rather a lonelylittle boy, but there were _worse_ times; perhaps this had been aworse time. Whatever had been the reason that prompted him, he hadwith disquieting suddenness, before Sheelah could prevent it, flunghis arms about the pretty mother and made audible objection to hergoing. 

"Why, Murray!" She had been taken by surprise. "Why, you littlesilly! I'm coming back to-night; I'm only going for the day! Youwouldn't see much more of me if I stayed at home. " Which, from itsvery reasonableness, had quieted him. Of course he would not see muchmore of her. As suddenly as he had wailed he stopped wailing. Yet shehad promised. Something had sent her back to the nursery door to doit. 

"Be a good boy and I'll come home before you go to bed! I'll _put_you to bed, " she had promised. "We'll have a regular lark!"

Hence he was out here on the door-step being a good boy. That Sheelahhad taken unfair advantage of the Promise and made the being goodrather a perilous undertaking, he did not appreciate. He only knew hemust walk a narrow path across a long, lonely day. 

There were certain things--one especial certain thing--he wanted toknow, but instinct warned him not to interrupt Sheelah till her workwas done, or she might call it not being good. So he waited, andwhile he waited he found out the special thing. An unexpectedprovidence sent enlightenment his way, to sit down beside him on thedoor-step. Its other name was Daisy. 

"Hullo, Murray! Is it you?" Daisy, being of the right sex, askedneedless questions sometimes. 

"Yes, " answered Murray, politely. 

"Well, le's play. I can stay half a hour. Le's tag. "

"I can't play, " rejoined Murray, caution restraining his naturaldesires. "I'm being good. "

[Illustration: I can't play . . . I'm being good]

"Oh, my!" shrilled the girl child derisively. "Can't you be goodtagging? Come on. "

"No; because you might--_I_ might get no-fairing, and then Sheelah'dcome out and say I was bad. Le's sit here and talk; it's safer to. What's a lark, Daisy? I was going to ask Sheelah. "

"A--lark? Why, it's a bird, of course!"

"I don't mean the bird kind, but the kind you have when your motherputs you--when something splendid happens. That kind, I mean. "

Daisy pondered. Her acquaintance with larks was limited, unless itmeant--

"Do you mean a good time?" she asked. "We have larks over to my housewhen we go to bed--"

"That's it! That's the kind!" shouted delighted Murray. "I'm going tohave one when I go to bed. Do you have _reg'lar_ ones, Daisy?" with asecret little hope that she didn't. "_I'm_ going to have a reg'larone. "

"Huh!--chase all 'round the room an' turn somersaults an' be highwayrobberers? An' take the hair-pins out o' your mother's hair an'_hide_ in it--what?"

Murray gasped a little at the picture of that kind of a lark. It wasdifficult to imagine himself chasing 'round the room or being ahighwayman; and as for somersaults--he glanced uneasily over hisshoulder, as if Sheelah might be looking and read "somersaults"through the back of his head. For once he had almost turned one andSheelah had found him in the middle of it and said pointed things. InSheelah's code of etiquette there were no somersaults in the "s"column. 

"It's a reg'lar lark to hide in your mother's hair, " was going on thegirl child's voice. "Yes, sir, that's the reg'larest kind!"

Murray gasped again, harder. For that kind took away his breathaltogether and made him feel a little dizzy, as if he were--were_doing it now_--hiding in his mother's hair! It was soft, beautiful, gold-colored hair, and there was a great deal of it--oh, plenty tohide in! He shut his eyes and felt it all about him and soft againsthis face, and smelled the faint fragrance of it. The dizziness wassweet. 

Yes, that must be the reg'larest kind of a lark, but Murray did notdeceive himself, once the dream was over. He knew _that_ kind was notwaiting for him at the end of this long day. But a lark was waiting, anyway--a plain lark. It might have been the bird kind in his littleheart now, singing for joy at the prospect. 

Impatience seized upon Murray. He wanted this little neighbor'shalf-hour to be up, so that he could go in and watch the clock. Hewanted Sheelah to come out here, for that would mean it was teno'clock; she always came at ten. He wanted it to be noon, to beafternoon, to be _night!_ The most beautiful time in his rathermonotonous little life was down there at the foot of the day, and hewas creeping towards it on the lagging hours. He was like a littletraveller on a dreary plain, with the first ecstatic glimpse of ahill ahead. 

Murray in his childish way had been in love a long time, but he hadnever got very near his dear lady. He had watched her a little wayoff and wondered at the gracious beauty of her, and loved her eyesand her lips and her soft, gold-colored hair. He had never--oh, never--been near enough to be unlaced and unbuttoned and put to bedby the lady that he loved. She had come in sometimes in a wondrousdress to say good night, but often, stopping at the mirror on the wayacross to him, she had seen a beautiful vision and forgotten to sayit. And Murray had not wondered, for he had seen the vision, too. 

[Illustration: Murray had . . . Seen the vision, too]

"Your mamma's gone away, hasn't she? I saw her. "

Daisy was still there! Murray pulled himself out of his dreaming, tobe polite. 

"Yes; but she's coming back to-night. She promised. "

"S'posing the cars run off the track so she can't?" Daisy said, cheerfully. 

"She'll come, " Murray rejoined, with the decision of faith. "Shepromised, I said. "

"S'posing she's killed 'most dead?"

"She'll come. "

"_Puffickly_ dead--s'posing?"

Murray took time, but even here his faith in the Promise stood itsground, though the ground shook under it. Sheelah had taught him whata promise was; it was something not to be shaken or killed even in arailroad wreck. 

"When anybody promises, _they do it_, " he said, sturdily. "Shepromised an' she'll come. "

"Then her angel will have to come, " remarked the older, girl child, coolly, with awful use of the indicative mood. 

When the half-hour was over and Murray at liberty, he went in to theclock and stood before it with hands a-pocket and wide-spread legs. Agreat yearning was upon him to know the mystery of telling time. Hewished--oh, how he wished he had let Sheelah teach him! Then he couldhave stood here making little addition sums and finding out just howlong it would be till night. Or he could go away and keep coming backhere to make little subtraction sums, to find out how much time wasleft _now_--and now--and now. It was dreadful to just stand andwonder things. 

Once he went up-stairs to his own little room out of the nursery andsat down where he had always sat when Sheelah unlaced him, before hehad begun to unlace himself, and stood up where he had always stoodwhen Sheelah unbuttoned him. He sat very still and stood very still, his grave little face intent with imagining. He was imagining how itwould be when _she_ did it. She would be right here, close--if hedared, he could put out his hand and smooth her. If he _dared_, hecould take the pins out of her soft hair, and hide in it--

He meant to dare!

"Little silly, " perhaps she would call him; perhaps she wouldremember to kiss him good-night. And afterwards, when the lark wasover, it would stay on, singing in his heart. And he would lie in thedark and love Her. 

For Her part, it was a busy day enough and did not lag. She did hershopping and called on a town friend or two. In the late afternoonshe ran in to several art-stores where pictures were on exhibition. It was at the last of these places that she chanced to meet a womanwho was a neighbor of hers in the suburbs. 

"Why, Mrs. Cody!" the neighbor cried. "How delightful! You've come into see Irving, too?"

"No, " with distinct regret answered Murray's mother, "but I wish Ihad! I'm only in for a little shopping. "

"Not going to stay! Why, it will be _wicked_ to go backto-night--unless, of course, you've seen him in Robespierre. "

"I haven't. Cicely Howe has been teasing me to stop over and go withher. It's a 'sure-enough' temptation, as Fred says. Fred's away, sothat part's all right. Of course there's Murray, but there's alsoSheelah--" She was talking more to herself now than to the neighbor. The temptation had taken a sudden and striking hold upon her. It wasthe chance of a lifetime. She really ought--

"I guess you'll stop over!" laughed the neighbor. "I know the signs. "

"I'll telephone to Sheelah, " Murray's mother decided, aloud, "thenI'll run along back to Cicely's. I've always wanted to see Irving inthat play. "

But it was seven o'clock before she telephoned. She was to have beenat home at half-past seven. 

"That you, Sheelah? I'm not coming out to-night--not until morning. I'm going to the theatre. Tell Murray I'll bring him a present. Putan extra blanket over him if it comes up chilly. "

She did not hang up the receiver at once, holding it absently at herear while she considered if she ought to say anything else toSheelah. Hence she heard distinctly an indignant exclamation. 

"Will you hear that, now! An' the boy that certain! 'She's promised, 'he says, an' he'll kape on 'She's-promising' for all o' me, for it'snot tell him I will! He can go to slape in his poor little boots, expectin' her to kape her promise!"

The woman with the receiver at her ear uttered a low exclamation. Shehad not forgotten the Promise, but it had not impressed her asanything vital. She had given it merely to comfort Little Silly whenhe cried. That he would regard it as sacred--that it _was_sacred--came to her now with the forcible impact of a blow. And, oddly enough, close upon its heels came a remembrance picture--of atiny child playing with his soldiers on the floor. The sunlight layover him--she could see it on his little hair and face. She couldhear him talking to the "Captain soldier. " She had at the timecalled it a sermon, with a text, and laughed at the child whopreached it. She was not laughing now. 

"Lissen, Cappen Sojer, an' I'll teach you a p'omise. A p'omise--ap'omise--why, when anybody p'omises, _they do it!_"

Queer how plainly she could hear Little Silly say that and could seehim sitting in the sun! Just the little white dress he had on--tucksin it and a dainty edging of lace! She had recognized Sheelah'smaxims and laughed. Sheelah was stuffing the child with notions. 

"If anybody p'omises, they do it. " It seemed to come to her over thewire in a baby's voice and to strike against her heart. This motherof a little son stood suddenly self-convicted of a crime--the crimeof faithlessness. It was not, she realized with a sharp stab of pain, faith in _her_ the little child at the other end of the linewas exercising, but faith in the Promise. He would keep on"She-promising" till he fell asleep in his poor little boots--

"Oh!" breathed in acute distress the mother of a little son. For allunexpectedly, suddenly, her house built of cards of carelessness, flippancy, thoughtlessness, had fallen round her. She struggled amongthe flimsy ruins. 

Then came a panic of hurry. She must go home at once, without amoment's delay. A little son was waiting for her to come and put himto bed. She had promised; he was waiting. They were to have a regularlittle lark--that she remembered, too, with distinctness. She wasalmost as uncertain as Murray had been of the meaning of a "lark";she had used the word, as she had used so many other words to thechild, heedlessly. She had even and odd, uncertain little feeling asto what it meant to put a little son to bed, for she had neverunlaced or unbuttoned one. She had never wanted to until now. Butnow--she could hardly wait to get home to do it. Little Silly wasgrowing up--the bare brown space between the puffs of his littletrousers and the top rims of his little socks were widening. She musthurry, hurry! What if he grew up before she got there! What if shenever had a chance to put a little son to bed! She had lost so manychances; this one that was left had suddenly sprung into prominenceand immense value. With the shock of her awakening upon her she feltlike one partially paralyzed, but with the need upon her to rise andwalk--to _run_. 

She started at once, scarcely allowing herself time to explain to herfriend. She would listen to no urgings at all. 

"I've got to go, Cicely--I've promised my little son, " was all shetook time to say; and the friend, knowing of the telephone message, supposed it had been a telephone promise. 

At the station they told her there was another train at seven-thirty, and she walked about uneasily until it came. Walking about seemed tohurry it along the rails to her. 

Another woman waited and walked with her. Another mother of littlesons, she decided whimsically, reading it in the sweet, quiet face. The other woman was in widow's black, and she thought how merciful itwas that there should be a little son left her. She yielded to aninclination to speak. 

"The train is late, " she said. "It must be. "

"No. " The other woman glanced backward at the station clock. "It'swe who are early. "

"And in a hurry, " laughed Murray's mother, in the relief of speech. "I've got to get home to put my little son to bed! I don't supposeyou are going home for that?"

The sweet face for an instant lost its quietness. Something like aspasm of mortal pain crossed it and twisted it. The woman walked awayabruptly, but came back. "I've been home and--put him to bed, " shesaid, slowly--"in his last little bed. "

Then Murray's mother found herself hurrying feverishly into a car, her face feeling wet and queer. She was crying. 

"Oh, the poor woman!" she thought, "the poor woman! And I'm goinghome to a little live one. I can cover him up and tuck him in! I cankiss his little, solemn face and his little, brown knees. Why haven'tI ever kissed his knees before? If I could only hurry! Will this carever start?" She put her head out of the window. An oily personagein jumpers was passing. 

"Why don't we start?" she said. 

"Hot box, " the oily person replied, laconically. 

The delay was considerable to a mother going home to put her littlechild to bed. It seemed to this mother interminable. When at lengthshe felt a welcome jar and lurch her patience was threadbare. She satbolt upright, as if by so doing she were helping things along. 

It was an express and leaped ahead splendidly, catching up withitself. Her thoughts leaped ahead with it. No, no, he would not be inbed. Sheelah was not going to tell him, so he would insist uponwaiting up. But she might find him asleep in his poor little boots!She caught her breath in half a sob, half tender laugh. Little Silly!

But if an express, why this stop? They were slowing up. It was nottime to get to the home station; there were no lights. Murray'smother waylaid a passing brakeman. 

"What is it? What is it?"

"All right, all right! Don't be scairt, lady! Wreck aheadsomewheres--freight-train. We got to wait till they clear the track. "

But the misery of waiting! He might get tired of waiting, or Sheelahmight tell him his mother was not coming out to-night; he might go tobed, with his poor little faith in the Promise wrecked, like thefreight on there in the dark. She could not sit still and bear thethought; it was not much easier pacing the aisle. She felt a wildinclination to get off the train and walk home. 

At the home station, when at last she reached it, she took acarriage. "Drive fast!" she said, peremptorily. "I'll pay you doublefare. "

The houses they rattle past were ablaze with light down-stairs, notup-stairs where little sons would be going to bed. All the littlesons had gone to bed. 

They stopped with a terrific lurch. It threw her on to the seatahead. 

"This is not the place, " she cried, sharply, after a glance without. 

"No'm; we're stopping fer recreation, " drawled sarcastically theunseen driver. He appeared to be assisting the horse to lie down. Shestumbled to the ground and demanded things. 

"Yer'll have to ax this here four-legged party what's doin'. _I_didn't stop--I kep' right on goin'. He laid down on his job, that'sall, marm. I'll get him up, come Chris'mas. Now then, yer ole fool!"

There was no patience left in the "fare" standing there beside theplunging beast. She fumbled in her purse, found something, dropped itsomewhere, and hurried away down the street. She did not walk home, because she ran. It was well the streets were quiet ones. 

"Has he gone to bed?" she came panting in upon drowsy Sheelah, startling that phlegmatic person out of an honest Irish dream. 

"Murray--Little Silly--has he gone to bed? Oh no!" for she saw himthen, an inert little heap at Sheelah's feet. She gathered him up inher arms. 

"I won't! I won't go, Sheelah! I'm waiting. She promis--" in drowsymurmur. 

"She's here--she's come, Murray! Mamma's come home to put you tobed--Little Silly, open your eyes and see mamma!"

And he opened them and saw the love in her eyes before he saw her. Sleep took instant wings. He sprang up. 

"I knew you'd come! I told Sheelah! When anybody promises, they--Come on quick up-stairs! I can unlace myself, but I'd rather--"

"Yes, yes!" she sobbed. 

"And we'll have a lark, won't we? You said a lark; but not thereg'larest kind--I don't suppose we could have the reg'larest kind?"

"Yes--yes!"

"Oh!--why!" His eyes shone. He put up his hand, then drew it shylyback. If she would only take out the pins herself--if he only daredto--

"What is it, Little Silly--darling?" They were up in his room. Shehad her cheek against his little, bare, brown knees. It brought hersoft, gold-colored hair so near--if he only dared--

"What is it you'd like, little son?" And he took courage. She hadnever called him Little Son before. It made him brave enough. 

"I thought--the reg'larest kind--your hair--if you'd let it tumbleall down, I'd--hide in it, " he breathed, his knees against her cheektrembling like little frightened things. 

It fell about him in a soft shower and he hid in it and laughed. Sheelah heard them laughing together. 

Chapter IX

The Little Lover

"I wish I knew for very certain, " the Little Lover murmured, wistfully. The licorice-stick was so shiny and black, and he had laidhis tongue on it one sweet instant, so he knew just how good ittasted. If he only knew for very certain--of course there was achance that She did not love licorice sticks. It would be a regularpity to waste it. Still, how could anybody _not_ love 'em--

"'Course She does!" exclaimed the Little Lover, with suddenconviction, and the struggle was ended. It had only been a questionof Her liking or not liking. That decided, there was no furtherhesitation. He held up the licorice-stick and traced a wavery littleline round it with his finger-nail. The line was pretty near one ofits ends--the end towards the Little Lover's mouth. 

"I'll suck as far down as that, just 'xactly, " he said; "then I'llput it away in the Treasury Box. "

He sat down in his little rocker and gave himself up to the moment'sbliss, first applying his lips with careful exactitude to thedividing-line between Her licorice stick and his. 

The moment of bliss ended, the Little Lover got out the Treasury Boxand added the moist, shortened licorice-stick to the other treasuresin it. There were many of them, --an odd assortment that would havemade any one else smile. But the Little Lover was not smiling. Hissmall face was grave first, then illumined with the light of willingsacrifice. The treasures were all so beautiful! She would be sopleased, --my, _my_, how please She would be! Of course She would likethe big golden alley the best, --the very best. But the singing-topwas only a tiny little way behind in its power to charm. Perhaps Shehad never seen a singing-top--think o' that! Perhaps She had neverhad a great golden alley, or a corkscrew jack-knife, or a canary-birdwhistle, or a red and white "Kandy Kiss, "--or a licorice-stick! Thinko' that--think of how pleased She would be!

"'Course She will, " laughed the Little Lover in his delight. If heonly dared to give Her the Treasury Box! If he only knew how! Ifthere was somebody he could ask, --but the housekeeper was too old, and Uncle Larry would laugh. There was nobody. 

The waiting wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the red-cheeked pearin the Treasury Box, and the softest apple. They made it a littledang'rous to wait. 

It had not been very long that he had loved Her. The first Sundaythat She smiled at him across the aisle was the beginning. He had notgone to sleep that Sunday, nor since, on any of the smiling Sundays. He had not wanted to. It had been rest enough to sit and watch Herfrom the safe shelter of the housekeeper's silken cloak. Her clear, fresh profile, Her pretty hair, Her ear, Her throat--he liked towatch them all. It was rest enough, --as if, after that, he could havegone to sleep!

She was very tall, but he liked her better for that. He meant to betall some day. Just now he did not reach-- But he did not wish tothink of that. It troubled him to remember that Sunday that he hadmeasured himself secretly beside Her, as the people walked out ofchurch. It made him blush to think how very little way he had"reached. " He had never told any one, but then he never told any oneanything. Not having any mother, and your father being away all thetime, and the housekeeper being old, and your uncle Larry alwayslaughing, made it diff'rent 'bout telling things. Of course if youhad 'em--mothers, and fathers that stayed at home, and uncles thatdidn't laugh, --but you didn't. So you 'cided it was better not totell things. 

One Sunday the Little Lover thought he detected Uncle Larry watchingHer too. But he was never quite certain sure. Anyway, when She hadturned Her beautiful head and smiled across the aisle, it had been at_him_. The Little Lover was "certain sure" of that! In his shy littleway he had smiled back at Her and nodded. The warmth had kept on inhis heart all day. That was the day before he found out the ImportantThing. 

Out in the front hall after supper he came upon a beautiful, tantalizing smell that he failed for some time to locate. He wentabout with his little nose up-tilted, in a persistent search. It wassuch a beautiful smell!--not powerful and oversweet, but faint andwonderful. The little nose searched on patiently till it found it. There was a long box on the hall-table and the beautiful smell cameout under the lid and met the little, up-tilted nose half-way. 

"I've found it! It's inside o' that box!" the Little Lover cried intriumph. "Now I guess I better see what it looks like. Oh! why, it's_posies!_" For there, in moist tissue wrappings, lay a cluster ofmarvellous pale roses, breathing out their subtle sweetness into thelittle face above them. 

"Why, I didn't know _that_ was the way a beautiful smell looked!I--it's very nice, isn't it? If it's Uncle Larry's, I'm goin' to askhim-- Oh, Uncle Larry, can I have it? Can I? I want to put it inHer--" But he caught himself up before he got quite to "TreasuryBox. " He could not tell Uncle Larry about that. 

The tall figure coming down the hall quickened its steps to a leaptowards the opened box on the table. Uncle Larry's face was flushed, but he laughed--he always laughed. 

"You little 'thafe o' the wurruld'!" he called out. "What are youdoing with my roses?"

"I want 'em--please, " persisted the child, eagerly, thinking of theTreasury Box and Her. 

"Oh, you do, do you? But they're not for the likes o' you. "

Sudden inspiration came to the Little Lover. If this was a TreasuryBox, --if he were right on the edge of finding out how you gave one--

"Is--is it for a She?" he asked, breathless with interest. 

"A--'She'?" laughed Uncle Larry, but something as faint and tender asthe beautiful smell was creeping into his face. "Yes, it is for aShe, Reggie, --the most beautiful She in the world, " he added, gently. He was wrapping the beautiful smell again in the tissue wrappings. 

Then it was a Treasury Box. Then you did the treasures up that way, in thin, rattly paper like that. _Then_ what did you do? But he wouldfind out. 

"Oh, I didn't know, " he murmured. "I didn't know _that_ was the way!Do you send it by the 'spressman, then, Uncle Larry, --to--to Her, youknow? With Her name on?"

Uncle Larry was getting into his overcoat. He laughed. The tenderlight that had been for an instant in his face he had put away againout of sight. 

"No; I'm my own ''spressman. ' You've got some things to learn, Reg, before you grow up. "

"I'd ravver learn 'em now. Tell me 'em! Tell what you do _then_. "

The old mocking light was back in Uncle Larry's eyes. This small chapwith the earnest little face was good as a play. 

"'_Then'?_ Then, sure, I go to the door and ring the bell. Then Ikneel on one knee like this, and hold out the box--"

"The Treasury Box--yes, go on. "

"--Like this. And I say, 'Fair One, accept this humble offering, Ibeseech thee'--"

"Accept this hum-bul offering, I--I beseech thee"--the Little Loverwas saying it over and over to himself. It was a little hard, onaccount o' the queer words in it. He was still saying it after UncleLarry had gone. His small round face was intent and serious. When hehad learned the words, he practised getting down on one knee andholding out an imaginary Treasury Box. That was easier than the queerwords, but it made you feel funnier somewhere in your inside. Youwanted to cry, and you were a little afraid somebody else would wantto laugh. 

The next afternoon the Little Lover carried his Treasury Box to Her. He had wrapped all the little treasures carefully in tissue likeUncle Larry's roses. But there was no beautiful smell creepingout;--there was something a little like a smell, but not a beautifulone. The Little Lover felt sorry for that. 

She came to the door. It was a little discomposing on account ofthere being so little time to get your breath in. I-it made you feelfunny. 

But the Little Lover acted well his part. With a little gasp that waslike a sob he sank on one knee and held up the Treasury Box to Her. 

"Fair One, " he quivered, softly, "accept this--offspring--no, I meanthis _hum-bul_ offspring, I--I--oh, I mean _please!_"

She stooped to the level of his little, solemn face. Then suddenlyShe lifted him, Treasury Box and all, and bore him into a great, bright room. 

"Why, Reggie!--you are Reggie, aren't you? You're the little boy thatsmiles at me across the aisle in church? I thought so! Well, I am soglad you have come to see me. And to think you have brought me apresent, too--"

"I be-seech thee!" quivered the Little Lover, suddenly rememberingthe queer words that had eluded him before. He drew a long, happybreath. It was over now. She had the Treasury Box in her hand. Shewould open it by-and-by and find the golden alley and the singing-topand the licorice-stick. He wished he dared tell Her to open it soonon account o' the softest apple and the red-cheeked pear. Perhaps hewould dare to after a little while. It was so much easier, so far, than he had expected. 

She talked to him in Her beautiful, low-toned voice, and by-and-byShe sat down to the piano and sang to him. That was the ve-ry best. He curled up on the sofa and listened, watching Her clear profile andHer hair and Her pretty moving fingers, in his Little Lover way. Shelooked so beautiful!--it made you want to put your cheek against Hersleeve and rub it very softly back and forth, back and forth, overand over again. If you only dared to!

So he was very happy until he smelled the beautiful smell again. Allat once it crept to him across the room. He recognized it instantlyas the same one that had crept out from under the lid of UncleLarry's box. It was there, in the great, bright room! He slid to hisfeet and went about tracing it with his little up-tilted nose. It ledhim across to Her, and then he saw Uncle Larry's roses on Her breast. He uttered the softest little cry of pain--so soft She did not hearit in Her song--and crept back to his seat. He had had his firstwound. He was only six, but at six it hurts. 

It was Uncle Larry's roses She wore on Her dress--then it was rosesShe liked, not licorice-sticks and golden alleys. Then it was UncleLarry's roses, --then She must like Uncle Larry. Then--oh, then, Shewould never like _him!_ Perhaps it was Uncle Larry She had smiled atall the time, across the aisle. Uncle Larry "reached" so far! Hewouldn't have to grow. 

"She b'longs to Uncle Larry, an' I wanted Her to b'long to me. Nobody else does--I wouldn't have needed anybody else to, if She had. All I needed to b'long was Her. I wanted Her! I--I love Her. Sheisn't Uncle Larry's--she's mine!--She's mine!" The thoughts of theLittle Lover surged on turbulently, while the beautiful low song wenton. She was singing--She was singing to Uncle Larry. The song wasn'tsweet and soft and tender for _him_. It was sweet and soft and tenderfor Uncle Larry. 

"I hate Uncle Larry!" cried out the Little Lover, but She did nothear. She was lost in the tender depths of the song. It was very latein the afternoon and a still darkness was creeping into the big, bright room. The Little Lover nestled among the cushions of the sofa, spent with excitement and loss, and that new, dread feeling that madehim hate Uncle Larry. He did not know its name, and it was better so. But he knew the pain of it. 

"Why, Reggie! Why, you poor little man, you're asleep! And I havebeen sitting there singing all this time! And it grew quite dark, didn't it? Oh, poor little man, poor little man, I had forgotten youwere here! I'm glad you can't hear me say it!"

Yes, it was better. But he would have like to feel Her cool cheekagainst his cheek; he would have felt a little relief in hisdesolate, bitter heart if he could see how gentle Her face was andthe beautiful look there was in Her soft eyes. But perhaps--if Shewas not looking at him--if it was at Uncle Larry-- No, no, LittleLover; it is better to sleep on and not to know. 

It was Uncle Larry who carried him home, asleep still, and laid himgently on his own little bed. Uncle Larry's bearded face was shiningin the dark room like a star. The tumult of joy in the man's heartclamored for utterance. Uncle Larry felt the need of telling someone. So, because he could not help it, he leaned down and shook theLittle Lover gently. 

"You little foolish chap, do you know what you have lost? You wereright there--you might have heard Her when She said it! You mighthave peeped between your fingers and seen Her face--angels in Heaven!Her face!--with the love-light in it. You poor little chap! you poorlittle chap! You were right there all the time and you didn't know. And you don't know now when I tell you I'm the happiest man alive!You lie there like a little log. Well, sleep away, little chap. Whatdoes it matter to you?"

It was the Little Lover's own guardian-angel who kept him from wakingup, but Uncle Larry did not know. He took off the small, dusty shoesand loosened the little clothes, with a strange new tenderness in hisbig fingers. The familiar little figure seemed to have put on acertain sacredness for having lain on Her cushions and been touchedby Her hands. And She had kissed the little chap. Uncle Larry stoopedand found the place with his lips. 

The visit seemed like a dream to the Little Lover, next morning. Howcould it have been real when he could not remember coming home atall? He _hadn't_ come home, --so of course he had never gone. It was adream, --still--where was the Treasury Box?

"I wish I knew for very certain, " the Little Lover mused. "I couldask Uncle Larry, but I hate Uncle Larry--" Oh! Then it wasn't adream. It was true. It all came back. The Little Lover remembered whyhe hated Uncle Larry. He remembered it all. Lying there in his littlebed he smelt the beautiful smell again and followed it up to theroses on Her dress. They were Uncle Larry's roses, so he hated UncleLarry. He always would. He did not hate Her, but he would never go tosee Her again. He would never nod or smile at Her again in church. Hewould never be happy again. 

Perhaps She would send back the Treasury Box;--the Little Lover hadheard once that people sent back things when it was all over. It wasall over now. He was only six, but the pain in his heart was so bigthat he did not think to wish She would send back the Treasury Boxsoon, on account of the softest apple. 

The days went by until they made a month, --two months, --half a year. The pain in the Little Lover's heart softened to a dreary loneliness, but that stayed on. He had always been a lonely little chap, but notlike this. He had never had a mother, and his father had nearlyalways been away. But this was different. Now he had nobody to love, and he hated Uncle Larry. 

That was before the Wonderful Thing happened. One day Uncle Larrybrought Her home. He said She was his wife. That was the WonderfulThing. 

The Little Lover ran away and hid. They could not find him for a longtime. It was She who found him. 

"Why, Reggie! Why, poor little man! Look up. What is it, dear?Reggie, you are crying!"

He did not care. He _wanted_ to cry. But he let Her take him into Herarms. 

"_I_ wanted to do it!" he sobbed, desolately, his secret out at last. 

"Do it? Do what, Reggie?"

"M-marry you. _I_ was goin' to do it. H-He hadn't any right to! Ihate him--I hate him!"

A minute there was silence, except for the soft creak of Her dress asShe rocked him. Then She lifted his wet little face to Hers. 

"Reggie, " She whispered, "how would a mother do?"

He nestled his cheek against Her sleeve and rubbed it back and forth, back and forth, while he thought. A mother--then there would be nomore loneliness. Then there would be a place to cuddle in, andsomebody to tell things to. "I'd _ravver_ a mother, " the Little Loversaid. 

Chapter X

The Child

The Child had it all reasoned out in her own way. It was only latelyshe had got to the end of her reasoning and settled down. At first ithad not been very satisfactory, but she had gradually, with a child'soptimism, evolved from the dreary little maze a certain degree ofcontent. 

She had only one confidant. The Child had always lived arather proscribed, uneventful little life, with pitifully fewintimates, --none of her own age. The Child was eight. 

The confidant, oddly, was a picture in the silent, awe-inspiringcompany-room. It represented a lady with a beautiful face, and a babyin her arms. The Child had never heard it called a Madonna, but itwas because of that picture that she was never afraid in thecompany-room. Going in and out so often to confide things to the Ladyhad bred a familiarity with the silent place that came to amount inthe end to friendliness. The Lady was always there, smiling gently atthe Child, and so the other things did not matter--the silence andthe awe-inspiringness. 

The Child told the Lady everything, standing down under the pictureand looking up at it adoringly. She was explaining her conclusionsconcerning the Greatest Thing of All now. 

"I didn't tell you before, " she said. "I wanted to get it reasoned_out_. If, " rather wistfully, "you were a--a flesh-and-bloody lady, you could tell me if I haven't got it right. But I think I have. 

"You see, there are a great many kinds of fathers and mothers, butI'm only talking of my kind. I'm going to love my father one day andmy mother the next. Like this: my mother Monday, my father Tuesday, mother Wednesday, father Thursday--right along. Of course you can'tdivide seven days even, but I'm going to love them both on Sundays. Just one day in the week I don't think it will do any harm, do you?--Oh, you darling Lady, I wish you could shake your head or bow it! I'monly eight, you see, and eight isn't a very _reasonable_ age. But Icouldn't think of any better way. "

The Child's eyes riveted to the beautiful face almost saw it nod alittle. 

"I haven't decided 'xactly, but perhaps I shall love my mother Sundaymornings and my father Sunday afternoons. If--if it seems best to. I'll let you know. " She stopped talking and thought a minute in herserious little way. She was considering whether to say the next thingor not. Even to the Lady she had never said why-things about herfather and mother. If the Lady knew--and she had lived so long in thecompany-room, it seemed as if she must, --then there was no need ofexplaining. And if she didn't know--suddenly the Child, with a throbof pride, hoped that the Lady did not know. But perhaps some slightexplanation was necessary. 

"Of course, " the Child burst out, hurriedly, her cheeks aflame, --"ofcourse it would be nice to love both of 'em the same day, but--butthey're not that kind of a father and mother. I've thought it allover and made the reasonablest plan I know how to. I'm going to beginto-morrow--to-morrow is Tuesday, my father's day. "

It was cold in the company-room, and any moment Marie might come andtake her away. She was always a little pressed for time. 

"I must be going, " she said, "or Marie will come. Good-bye. Give mylove to the baby. " She always sent her love to the baby in thebeautiful Lady's arms. 

The Child's home, though luxurious, had to her the effect of being adouble tenement. An invisible partition divided her father's sidefrom her mother's; her own little white room, with Marie's alcove, seemed to be across the dividing line, part on one side, part on theother. She could remember when there had not been any invisiblepartition, but the intensity of her little mental life since there_had_ been one had dimmed the beautiful remembrance. It seemed to hernow as a pleasant dream that she longed to dream again. 

The next day the Child loved her father, for it was Tuesday. She wentabout it in her thorough, conscientious little way. She had made outa little programme. At the top of the sheet, in her clear, uprighthand, was, "Ways to Love My farther. " And after that:

 "1. Bringing in his newspaper. "2. Kissing Him goodmorning. "3. Rangeing his studdy table. "4. Putting flours on " " "5. Takeing up His male. "6. Reeching up to rub My cheak against his cheak. "7. Lerning to read so I can read His Books. "

There were many other items. The Child had used three pages for herprogramme. The last two lines read:

 "Praing for Him. "Kissing Him goodnight. "

The Wednesday programme was almost identical with this one, with theexception of "my mother" instead of "my farther. " For the Child didnot wish to be partial. She had always had a secret notion that itwould be a little easier to read her mother's books, but she meant toread just as many of her "farther's. "

During the morning she went in to the Lady and reported progress sofar. Her cheeks were a delicate pink with excitement, and she panteda little when she spoke. 

"I'm getting along splendidly, " she said, smiling up at the beautifulface. "Perhaps--of course I can't tell for sure, but I'm not certainbut that he will like it after he gets used to it. You have to getused to things. He liked the flowers, and when I rubbed my cheek'gainst his, and when I kissed him. How I know he did is because hesmiled--I wish my father would smile all the time. "

The Child did not leave the room when she had finished her report, but fidgeted about the great silent place uncertainly. She turnedback by-and-by to the Lady. 

"There's something I _wish_ you could tell me, " she said, with herwistful little face uplifted. "It's if you think it would be politeto ask my father to put me to bed instead of Marie--just unbutton me, you know, and pray me. I was going to ask my mother to-morrow nightif my father did to-night. I thought--I thought"--the Child hesitatedfor adequate words--"it would be the lovingest way to love him, foryou feel a little intimater with persons when they put you to bed. Sometimes I feel that way with Marie--a very little. I wish you couldnod your head if you thought it would be polite. "

The Child's eyes, fastened upon the picture, were intently serious. And again the Lady seemed to nod. 

"Oh, you're nodding, yes!--I b'lieve you're nodding yes! Thank youve-ry much--now I shall ask him to. Good-bye. Give my love to thebaby. " And the little figure moved away sedately. 

To ask him in the manner of a formal invitation with "yours verytruly" in it appeared to the Child upon thoughtful deliberation to bethe best way. She did not feel very intimate yet with her father, butof course it might be different after he unbuttoned her and prayedher. 

Hence the formal invitation:

"Dear farther you are respectably invited to put yore little girlto bed tonite at 1/2 past 7. Yores very truely

 Elizabeth. 

"R s v p. 

P. S. The little girl is me. "

It was all original except the "R s v p" and the fraction. TheChild had asked Marie how to write "half, " and the other she hadfound in the corner of one of her mother's formal invitations. Shedid not know what the four letters meant, but they made theinvitation look nicer, and she could make lovely capital "R's. "

At lunch-time the Child stole up-stairs and deposited her littlefolded note on top of her father's manuscript. Her heart beatstrangely fast as she did it. She had still a lurking fear that itmight not be polite. 

On the way back she hurried into the company-room, up to the Lady. "I've done it!" she reported, breathlessly. "I hope it waspolite--oh, I hope he will!"

[Illustration: Elizabeth]

The Child's father ate his lunch silently and a little hastily, as ifto get it over. On the opposite side of the table the Child's motherate hers silently and a little hastily. It was the usual way of theirmeals. The few casual things they said had to do with the weather orthe salad. Then it was over and they separated, each to his own sideof the divided house. 

The father took up his pen to write--it seemed all there was left todo now. But the tiny folded note arrested his hand, and he stared inamazement. The Child had inadvertently set her seal upon it in theform of a little finger-print. So he knew it was hers. The firstshock of hope it had awakened subsided into mere curiosity. But whenhe opened it, when he read it--

He sat a long time very still indeed--so still he could hear therustle of manuscript pages in the other writing-room across the hall. Perhaps he sat there nearly all the afternoon, for the shadowslengthened before he seemed to move. 

In the rush of thoughts that came to him two stood out mostclearly--the memory of an awful day, when he had seemed to die athousand deaths, and only come to life when a white-capped nurse camesmiling to him and said, "It is a little girl, " and the memory of aday two years ago, when a man and a woman had faced each other andsaid, "We will try to bear it for the child. "

The Child found her answer lying on her plate at nursery tea. Marie, who was bustling about the room getting things orderly for the night, heard a little gasp and turned in alarm. The Child was spelling outher letter with a radiant face that belied the gasp. There wassomething in the lonely little figure's eagerness that appealed evento the unemotional maid, and for a moment there was likelihood of astrange thing happening. But the crisis was quickly over, and Marie, with the kiss unkissed on her lips, went on with her work. Emotionswere rare with Marie. 

"'Dear Little Girl, Who Is You, '" spelled the Child, in a softecstasy, yet not without dread of what might come, supposing hethought she had been impo--

"'Dear Little Girl, Who Is You, '" she hurriedly began again, "'yourfarther will be happy to accept your kind invitation for 1/2past 7 this evening. Will you please call for him, as he is alittle--b-a-s-h-f-u-l'--Marie, what does b-a-s-h-f-u-l spell?"shrilled the eager voice. It was a new word. 

Marie came over to the Child's chair. "How can I tell without I seeit?" she said. But the Child drew away gently. 

"This is a very intimate letter--you'll have to 'xcuse seeing it. Never mind, anyway, thank you, --I can guess it. " And she guessedthat it spelled the way she would feel when she called for her fatherat half-past seven, for the Child was a little bashful, too. She toldthe Lady so. 

"I don't _dread_ it; I just wish it was over, " she explained. "Itmakes me feel a little queer, you see. Probably you wouldn't feelthat way if you was better acquainted with a person. Fathers andmothers are kind of strangers. "

She was ready at seven o'clock, and sat, a little patient statue, watching the nursery clock. Marie, who had planned to go out and hadintended setting the hands of the clock ahead a little, wasunwarrantably angry with the Child for sitting there so persistently. "Come, " she said, impatiently; "I've got your night-gown ready. Thisclock's too slow. "

"Truly, is it?" the Child questioned, anxiously. "Slow means it's'most half-past, doesn't it? Then I ought to be going!"

"Yes, --come along;" but Marie meant to bed, and the Child was alreadyon her way to her father. She hurried back on second thought toexplain to Marie. 

"I've engaged somebody--there's somebody else going to put me to bedto-night. You needn't wait, Marie, " she said, her voice oddly subduedand like some other little girl's voice in her repressed excitement. 

He was waiting for her. He had been ready since half-past sixo'clock. Without a word--with only an odd little smile that set theChild at ease--he took her hand and went back with her. The door ofthe other writing-room was ajar, and they caught a glimpse as theywent by of a slender, stooping figure. It did not turn. 

"This is my room, " the Child introduced, gayly. The worst was overnow and all the rest was best. "You've never been in my room before, have you? This is where I keep my clothes, and this is myundressing-chair. This is where Marie sits--you're Marie to-night!"The Child's voice rang out in sudden, sweet laughter. It was such afunny idea! She was not a laughing Child, and the little, ripplingsound had the effect of escaping from imprisonment and exulting atits freedom. 

"You never unbuttoned a little girl before, did you? I'll have tolearn you. "

"Teach you, " he corrected, gently. 

"Marie says learn you. But of course I'll say 'teach' if you like itbetter, " with the ready courtesy of a hostess. "You begin with myfeet and go backwards!" Again the escaped laughter. The Child washappy. 

Down the hall where the slender figure stooped above the delicatelywritten pages the little laugh travelled again and again. By-and-byanother laugh, deep and rich, came hand in hand with it. Then thefigure straightened tensely, for this new laugh was rarer even thanthe Child's. Two years--two years and more since she had heard thisone. 

"Now it is time to pray me, " the Child said, dropping into suddensolemnity. "Marie lets me kneel to her--" hesitating questioningly. Then: "It's pleasanter to kneel to somebody--"

"Kneel to me, " he whispered. His face grew a little white, and hishand, when he caressed lightly the frolic-rumpled little head, wasnot steady. The stone mask of the man dropped off completely, andunderneath was tenderness and pain and love. 

"Now I lame me down to sleep--no, I want to say another one to-night, Lord God, if Thee please. This is a very particular night, because myfather is in it. Bless my father, Lord God, oh, bless my father! Thisis his day. I've loved him all day, and I'm going to again day afterto-morrow. But to-morrow I must love my mother. It would be easier tolove them both forever and ever, Amen. "

The Child slipped into bed and slept happily, but the man who wasfather of the Child had new thoughts to think, and it took time. Hefound he had not thought nearly all of them in his afternoon vigil. On his way back to his lonely study he walked a little slower pastthe other lonely study. The stooping of the slender figure newlytroubled him. 

The plan worked satisfactorily to the Child, though there was alwaysthe danger of getting the days mixed. The first mother-day had beenas "intimate" and delightful as the first father-one. They followedeach other intimately and delightfully in a long succession. Mariefound her perfunctory services less and less in requisition, and herdazed comprehension of things was divided equally with herself-gratulation. Life in this new and unexpected condition ofaffairs was easier to Marie. 

"I'm having a beautiful time, " the Child one day reported to theLady, "only sometimes I get a little dizzy trying to remember whichis which. My father is which to-day. " And it was at that bedtime, after an unusually active day, that the Child fell asleep at herprayer. Her rumpled head sagged more and more on her delicate neck, till it rested sidewise on the supporting knees, and the Child wasasleep. 

There was a slight stir in the doorway. 

"'Sh! don't move--sit perfectly still!" came in a whisper as aslender figure moved forward softly into the room. 

"Richard, don't move! The poor little tired thing--do you think youcould slip out without moving while I hold up her head--oh, I meanwithout _joggling?_ Now--oh, mamma's little tired baby! There, there!--'Sh! Now you hold her head and let me sit down--now put herhere in my arms, Richard. "

The transfer was safely made. They faced each other, she with herbaby, he standing looking down at them. Their eyes met steadily. TheChild's regular breathing alone stirred the silence of the littlewhite room. Then he stooped to kiss the Child's face as she stooped, and their kisses seemed to meet. She did not start away, but smiledinstead. 

"I want her every day, Richard!" she said. 

"_I_ want her every day, Mary!"

"Then there is only one way. Last night she prayed to have thingschanged round--"

"Yes, Polly?"

"We'll change things round, Dick. "

The Child was smiling in her sleep as if she heard them. 

Chapter XI

The Recompense

There were all kinds of words, --short ones and long ones. Somewere very long. This one--we-ell, maybe it wasn't so _long_, for whenyou're nine you don't of course mind three-story words, and this onelooked like a three-story one. But this one puzzled you the worstever!

Morry spelled it through again, searching for light. But it was avery dark word. Rec-om-_pense_, --if it meant anything _money-y_, thenthey'd made a mistake, for of course you don't spell "pence" with an"s. "

The dictionary was across the room, and you had to stand up to lookup things in it, --Morry wished it was not so far away and that youcould do it sitting down. He sank back wearily on his cushions andwished other things, too: That Ellen would come in, but that wasn't avery big wish, because Ellens aren't any good at looking up words. That dictionaries grew on your side o' the room, --that wish was afunny one! That Dadsy would come home--oh, oh, that Dadsy would comehome!

With that wish, which was a very Big One indeed, came trooping backall Morry's Troubles. They stood round his easy-chair and pressed upclose against him. He hugged the most intimate ones to his little, thin breast. 

It was getting twilight in the great, beautiful room, and twilightwas trouble-time. Morry had found that out long ago. It's when it'stoo dark to read and too light for Ellens to come and light the lampsthat you say "Come in!" to your troubles. They're always therewaiting. 

If Dadsy hadn't gone away to do--that. If he'd just gone on reg'larbusiness, or on a hurry-trip across the ocean, or something likethat. You could count the days and learn pieces to surprise him withwhen he got back, and keep saying, "Won't it be splendid!" But thistime--well, this time it scared you to have Dadsy come home. And ifyou learned a hundred pieces you knew you'd never say 'em tohim--now. And you kept saying, "Won't it be puffectly dreadful!"

"Won't you have the lamps lit, Master Morris?" It was Ellen's voice, but the Troubles were all talking at once, and much as ever he couldhear it. 

"I knew you weren't asleep because your chair creaked, so I says, 'Iguess we'll light up, '--it's enough sight cheerier in the light"; andEllen's thuddy steps came through the gloom and frightened away theTroubles. 

"Thank you, " Morry said, politely. It's easy enough to remember to bepolite when you have so much time. "Now I'd like Jolly, --you guesshe's got home now, don't you?"

Ellen's steps sounded a little thuddier as they tramped back down thehall. "It's a good thing there's going to be a Her here to send thatcommon boy kiting!" she was thinking. Yet his patches were allEllen--so far--had seen in Jolly to find fault with. Though, for thatmatter, in a house beautiful like this patches were, goodness knew, out of place _enough!_

"Hully Gee, ain't it nice an' light in here!" presently exclaimed aboy's voice from the doorway. 

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Jolly! Come right in and take achair, --take two chairs!" laughed Morry, in his excess of welcome. Itwas always great when Jolly came! He and the Troubles were notacquainted; they were never in the room at the same time. 

Morry's admiration of this small bepatched, befreckled, besmiledbeing had begun with his legs, which was not strange, they were suchpuffectly straight, limber, splendid legs and could _go_--my! Legslike that were great!

But it was noticeable that the legs were in some curious mannertelescoped up out of sight, once Jolly was seated. The phenomenon wasof common occurrence, --they were always telescoped then. And nothinghad ever been said between the two boys about legs. About arms, yes, and eyes, ears, noses, --never legs. If Morry understood the kindlittle device to save his feelings, an instinctive knowledge that anyexpression of gratitude would embarrass Jolly must have kept back hisready little thank you. 

"Can you hunt up things?" demanded the small host with ratherstartling energy. He was commonly a quiet, self-contained host. "Because there's a word--"

But Jolly had caught up his cap, untelescoped the kind little legs, and was already at the door. Nothing pleased him more than acommission from the Little White Feller in the soft chair there. 

"I'll go hunt, --where'd I be most likely to find him?"

The Little White Feller rarely laughed, but now--"You--you Jollyboy!" he choked, "you'll find him under a hay-stack fast aslee-- No, no!" suddenly grave and solicitous of the other's feelings, "in thedictionary, I mean. _Words_, don't you know?"

"Oh, get out!" grinned the Jolly boy, in glee at having made theLittle White Feller laugh out like that, reg'lar-built. "Hand himover, then, but you'll have to do the spellin'. "

"Rec-om-pense, --p-e-n-_s_-e, " Morry said, slowly, "I found it in amagazine, --there's the greatest lot o' words in magazines! Look up'rec, ' Jolly, --I mean, please. "

Dictionaries are terrible books. Jolly had never dreamed there wereso many words in the world, --pages and pages and pages of 'em! Theprospect of ever finding one particular word was disheartening, buthe plunged in sturdily, determination written on every freckle. 

"Don't begin at the first page!" cried Morry, hastily. "Begin atR, --it's more than half-way through. R-e, --r-e-c, --that way. "

Jolly turned over endless pages, trailed laboriously his little, blunt finger up and down endless columns, wet his lips with the redtip of his tongue endless times, --wished 'twas over. He had meant tobegin at the beginning and keep on till he got to a w-r-e-c-k, --atNumber Seven they spelled it that way. Hadn't he lost a mark forspelling it without a "w"? But of course if folks preferred the rkind--

"Hi!" the blunt finger leaped into space and waved triumphantly. "R-e-c-k, --I got him!"

"Not 'k, '--there isn't any 'k. ' Go backwards till you drop it, Jolly, --you dropped it?"

Dictionaries are terrible, --still, leaving a letter off o' the endisn't as bad as off o' the front. Jolly retraced his steps patiently. 

"I've dropped it, " he announced in time. 

Morry was breathing hard, too. Looking up words with other people'sfore-fingers is pretty tough. 

"Now, the second story, --'rec' is the first, " he explained. "You mustfind 'rec-om' now, you know. "

No, Jolly did not know, but he went back to the work undaunted. "We'll tree him, " he said, cheerily, "but I think I could do iteasier if I whistled"--

"Whistle, " Morry said. 

With more directions, more hard breathing, more wetting of lips andtireless trailing of small, blunt finger, and then--eureka! there youwere! But eureka was not what Jolly said. 

"Bully for us!" he shouted. He felt _thrilly_ with pride of conquest. "It's easy enough finding things. What's the matter withdictionaries!"

"Now read what it means, Jolly, --I mean, please. Don't skip. "

"'Rec-om-pense: An equi-va-lent received or re-turned for anythinggiven, done, or suff-er-ed; comp-ens-a-tion. '"

"That all?--every speck?"

"Well, here's another one that says 'To make a-mends, ' if you likethat one any better. Sounds like praying. "

"Oh, " sighed Morry, "how I'd like to know what equi-valent means!"but he did not ask the other to look it up. He sank back on hispillows and reasoned things out for himself the best way he could. "To make amends" he felt sure meant to _make up_. To make up forsomething given or suffered, --perhaps that was what a Rec-om-pensewas. For something given or suffered--like legs, maybe? Limp, no-good-legs that wouldn't go? Could there be a Rec-om-pense for_those?_ Could anything ever "make up"?

"Supposing you hadn't any legs, Jolly, --that would go?" he said, aloud, with disquieting suddenness. Jolly started, but noddedcomprehendingly. He had not had any legs for a good many minutes; thetelescoping process is numbing in the extreme. 

"Do you think anything could ever Rec-om-pense--make up, you know?Especially if you suffered? Please don't speak up quick, --think, Jolly. "

"I'm a-thinkin'. " Not to have 'em that would go, --not _go!_ Neverto kite after Dennis O'Toole's ice-wagon an' hang on behind, --nor seewho'd get to the corner first, --nor stand on your head an' wave 'em--

"No, sirree!" ejaculated Jolly, with unction, "nothin'. "

"Would ever make up, you mean?" Morry sighed. He had known all thetime, of course what the answer would be. 

"Yep, --nothin' could. "

"I thought so. That's all, --I mean, thank you. Oh yes, there's oneother thing, --I've been saving it up. Did you ever hear of a--of astep-mother, Jolly? I just thought I'd ask. "

The result was surprising. The telescoped legs came to view jerkily, but with haste. Jolly stumbled to his feet. 

"I better be a-goin', " he muttered, thinking of empty chip-baskets, empty water-pails, undone errands, --a switch on two nails behind thekitchen door. 

"Oh, wait a minute, --did you ever hear of one, Jolly?"

"You bet, " gloomily, "I got one. "

"Oh!--oh, I didn't know. Then, " rather timidly, "perhaps--I wishyou'd tell me what they're like. "

"Like nothin'! Nobody likes 'em, " came with more gloom yet from theboy with legs. 

"Oh!" It was almost a cry from the boy without. This was terrible. This was a great deal terribler than he had expected. 

"Would one be angry if--if your legs wouldn't go? Would it make her_very_, do you think?"

Still thinking of empty things that ought to have been filled, Jollynodded emphatically. 

"Oh!" The terror grew. 

"Then one--then she--wouldn't be--be glad to see anybody, I suppose, whose legs had _never_ been?--wouldn't want to shake hands oranything, I suppose?--nor be in the same room?"

"Nope. " One's legs may be kind even to the verge of agony, but howunkind one's tongue may be! Jolly's mind was busy with his ownanticipated woes; he did not know he was unkind. 

"That's all, --thank you, I mean, " came wearily, hopelessly, from thepillows. But Morry called the other back before he got over thethreshold. There was another thing upon which he cravedenlightenment. It might possibly help out. 

"Are they pretty, Jolly?" he asked, wistfully. 

"Are who what?" repeated the boy on the threshold, puzzled. Guilt andapprehension dull one's wits. 

"Step-ones, --mothers. "

_Pretty?_ When they were lean and sharp and shabby! When they keptswitches on two nails behind the door, --when they wore ugly clothespinned together! But Jolly's eye caught the wistfulness on Morry'slittle, peaked, white face, and a lie was born within him at thesight. In a flash he understood things. Pity came to the front andbraced itself stalwartly. 

"You bet they're pretty!" Jolly exclaimed, with splendid enthusiasm. "Prettier'n anythin'! You'd oughter see mine!" (Recording Angel, make a note of it, when you jot this down, that the little faceacross the room was intense with wistfulness, and Jolly was lookingstraight that way. And remember legs. )

When Ellen came in to put Morry to bed she found wet spots on hiscushions, but she did not mention them. Ellens can be wise. She onlyhandled the limp little figure rather more gently than usual, andsaid rather more cheery things, perhaps. Perhaps that was why thesmall fellow under her hands decided to appeal in his desperation toher. It was possible--things were always possible--that Ellen mightknow something of--of step-ones. For Morry was battling with thepitifully unsatisfactory information Jolly had given him beforeunderstanding had conceived the kind little lie. It was, ofcourse, --Morry put it that way because "of course" sometimes comfortsyou, --of course just possible that Jolly's step-one might bedifferent. Ellen might know of there being another kind. 

So, under the skilful, gentle hands, the boy looked up and chancedit. "Ellen, " he said--"Ellen, are they all that kind, --_all_ of 'em?Jolly's kind, I mean? I thought poss'bly you might know one"--

"Heart alive!" breathed Ellen, in fear of his sanity. She felt histemples and his wrists and his limp little body. Was he going to besick now, just as his father and She were coming home?--now, of alltimes! Which would be better to give him, quinine, or aconite andbelladonna?

"Never mind, " sighed Morry, hopelessly. Ellens--he might haveknown--were not made to tell you _close_ things like that. They weremade to undress you and give you doses and laugh and wheel your chairaround. Jollys were better than Ellens, but they told you pretty hardthings sometimes. 

In bed he lay and thought out his little puzzles and steeled himselffor what was to come. He pondered over the word Jolly had looked upin the dictionary for him. It was a puzzly word, --Rec-om-pense, --buthe thought he understood it now. It meant something that made up toyou for something you'd suffered, --"suffered, " that was what it said. And Morry had suffered--oh, _how!_ Could it be possible there wasanything that would make up for little, limp, sorrowful legs that hadnever been?

With the fickleness of night-thoughts his musings flitted back tostep-ones again. He shut his eyes and tried to imagine just the rightkind of one, --the kind a boy would be glad to have come home with hisDadsy. It looked an easy thing to do, but there were limitations. 

"If I'd ever had a real one, it would be easier, " Morry thoughtwistfully. Of course, any amount easier! The mothers you read aboutand the Holy Ones you saw in pictures were not quite real enough. What you needed was to have had one of your own. Then, --Morry's eyesclosed in a dizzy little vision of one of his own. One that wouldhave dressed and undressed you instead of an Ellen, --that would havemoved your chair about and beaten up the cushions, --one that maybewould have _loved_ you, legs and all!

Why!--why, that was the kind of a step-one a boy'd like to have comehome with his father! That was the very kind! While you'd been lyingthere thinking you couldn't imagine one, you'd imagined! And it was_easy!_

The step-one a boy would like to have come home with his fatherseemed to materialize out of the dim, soft haze from the shadednight-lamp, --seemed to creep out of the farther shadows and come andstand beside the bed, under the ring of light on the ceiling thatmade a halo for its head. The room seemed suddenly full of itsgracious presence. It came smiling, as a boy would like it to come. And in a reg'lar mother-voice it began to speak. Morry lay as if in awondrous dream and listened. 

"Are you the dear little boy whose legs won't go?" He gasped alittle, for he hadn't thought of there being a "dear. " He had toswallow twice before he could answer. Then:--

"Oh yes'm, thank you, " he managed to say. "They're under thebedclothes. "

"Then I've come to the right place. Do you know--guess!--who I am?"

"Are--are you a step-one?" breathing hard. 

"Why, you've guessed the first time!" the Gracious One laughed. 

"Not--not _the_ one, I s'pose?" It frightened him to say it. But theGracious One laughed again. 

"_The_ one, yes, you Dear Little Boy Whose Legs Won't Go! I thought Iheard you calling me, so I came. And I've brought you something. "

To think of that!

"Guess, you Dear Little Boy! What would you like it to be?"

Oh, if he only dared! He swallowed to get up courage. Then heventured timidly. 

"A Rec-om-pense. " It was out. 

"Oh, you Guesser--you little Guesser! You've guessed the secondtime!"

Was that what it was like? Something you couldn't see at all, justfeel, --that folded you in like a warm shawl, --that brushed yourforehead, your cheek, your mouth, --that made you dizzy withhappiness? You lay folded up in it and knew that it _made up_. Nevermind about the sorrowful, limp legs under the bedclothes. They seemedso far away that you almost forgot about them. They might have beensomebody else's, while you lay in the warm, sweet Rec-om-pense. 

"Will--will it last?" he breathed. 

"Always, Morry. "

The Gracious Step-one knew his name!

"Then Jolly didn't know this kind, --we never s'posed there was a kindlike this! Real Ones must be like this. "

And while he lay in the warm shawl, in the soft haze of thenight-lamp, he seemed to fall asleep, and, before he knew, it wasmorning. Ellen had come. 

"Up with you, Master Morris! There's great doings to-day. Have youforgot who's coming?"

Ellens are stupid. 

"She's come. " But Ellen did not hear, and went on getting the bathready. If she had heard, it would only have meant quinine or aconiteand belladonna to drive away feverishness. For Ellens are verywatchful. 

"They'll be here most as soon as I can get you up 'n' dressed. I'mgoing to wheel you to the front winder--"

"No!" Morry cried, sharply; "I mean, thank you, no. I'd rather be bythe back window where--where I can watch for Jolly. " Homely, freckled, familiar Jolly, --he needed something freckled and homelyand familiar. The old dread had come back in the wake of thebeautiful dream, --for it had been a dream. Ellen had waked him up. 

A boy would like to have his father come home in the sunshine, andthe sun was shining. They would come walking up the path to thefront-door through it, --with it warm and welcoming on their faces. But it would only be Dadsy and a step-one, --Jolly's kind, mostlikely. Jolly's kind was pretty, --_she_ might be pretty. But shewould not come smiling and creeping out of the dark with a halo overher head. That kind came in dreams. 

Jolly's whistle was comforting to hear. Morry leaned out of hiscushions to wave his hand. Jolly was going to school; when he camewhistling back, she would be here. It would be all over. 

Morry leaned back again and closed his eyes. He had a way of closingthem when he did the hardest thinking, --and this was the veryhardest. Sometimes he forgot to open them, and dropped asleep. Evenin the morning one can be pretty tired. 

"Is this the Dear Little Boy?"

He heard distinctly, but he did not open his eyes. He had learnedthat opening your eyes drives beautiful things away. 

The dream had come back. If he kept perfectly still and didn'tbreathe, it might all begin again. He might feel--

He felt it. It folded him in like a warm shawl, --it brushed hisforehead, his cheek, his lips, --it made him dizzy with happiness. Helay among his cushions, folded up in it. Oh, it made up, --it made up, just as it had in the other dream!

"You Dear Little Boy Whose Legs Won't Go!"--he did not catch anythingbut the first four words; he must have breathed and lost the rest. But the tone was all there. He wanted to ask her if she had broughtthe Rec-om-pense, but it was such a risk to speak. He thought if hekept on lying quite still he should find out. Perhaps in a minute--

"You think he will let me love him, Morris? Say you think he will!"

Morris was Dadsy's other name. Things were getting very strange. 

"Because I must! Perhaps it will make up a very little if I fold himall up in my love. "

"Fold him up"--that was what the warm shawl had done, and the name ofthe warm shawl had been Rec-om-pense. Was there another name to it?

Morry opened his eyes and gazed up wonderingly into the face of thestep-one. --It was a Real One's face, and the other name was writtenon it. 

"Why, it's Love!" breathed Morry. He felt a little dizzy, but hewanted to laugh, he was so happy. He wanted to tell her--he must. 

"It makes up--oh yes, it makes up!" he cried, softly.