A MELODY IN SILVER By KEENE ABBOTT BOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANYThe Riverside Press Cambridge1911 COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY KEENE ABBOTTALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published April 1911_ CONTENTS I. THE LOST CAUSE 1 II. RUE AND ROSEMARY 14 III. THE WORLD'S END 20 IV. DEAD SEA FRUIT 30 V. THE MUG OF WOE 43 VI. "FAV-VER" 52 VII. AS A FOUNTAIN IN THE DESERT 66 VIII. THE GONE-AWAY LADY 75 IX. THE CRIME OF DAVID 86 X. THE NIP OF GUILT 97 XI. APOTHEOSIS 104 XII. LIGHT 113 XIII. THE SUBSTITUTE 125 XIV. SKY BLOSSOMS 142 A MELODY IN SILVER CHAPTER I THE LOST CAUSE David had a suspicion. He did not know it was that, but that iswhat it was. He suspected that Mother thought he was a goodlittle boy, and he suspected that she thought Mitchell Horriganwas a bad little boy. Perhaps Mother had a suspicion, too; shemight have suspected that it was Mitch who had put a certainnotion into David's head--a notion which had to do with pants. Only you must not call them pants; they are "trouvers. " But it doesn't really matter in the least what they are called. Mitch had them. He also had the measles once. David did not knowwhether it was the measles part or the pants part that made Mitcha bad little boy. All David knew about it was that if he invitedMitch into the yard to climb trees and give swimming lessons inthe high grass, it usually happened that Mother could think ofsome important business for her little boy to do in the house. Itwas surprising how many important matters there were for David todo in the house every time Mitch came into the yard to play. Shemight want to show him something, and perhaps it would be aturn-over that she wanted to show him, a delicious littlehalf-grown pie stuffed with strawberries or with cherries. If Mitch were waiting out under the trees, the toothsome bit ofpastry was always a very peculiar kind. Mother believed ingenerosity, but generosity with limitations. Strawberry turn-overwas not good for Mitch. Mother was positive that it was not goodfor him. That seemed a little singular to David, for he had nevernoticed anything wrong with Mitch. It does not seem credible thata boy who owns a real Indian bow 'n' arrow, which shoots so highhe can knock the eye out of an angel with it, should yet be sofoolish as to have a bad stomach. David had never seen any of the one-eyed angels that Mitch hadknocked down out of heaven with his Indian bow 'n' arrow. Mitchwas not the kind to show all of his treasures. He didn't evenshow his bow 'n' arrow. He kept it hid, so that if the policeever found out about it they could not get it away from him. Ifthey wanted to arrest him for having it, that would be allright, but they should not get hold of his Indian bow 'n' arrow. The thing you liked about Mitch was that he was so reasonable. One's faith in him would never be shaken unless one were to tryhis recipe for getting trouvers. In theory it was a sound recipe. Mitch, who had reached trouvers and understood the mightiness ofthe achievement, could vouch for the sure result of hisprescription. It was guaranteed to cure the dress-habit in sevendays. At first, though, Mitch would not tell how the great honorof pants had been bestowed upon him. He was then too importanteven to say, "Hello, kid!" For a time he did not deign to noticeanybody, and when he did notice anybody it was only to pretendthat David was nothing but a little girl. "I am not, neither. " David filed his protest between the palings of the fence. But itwas no use. He might protest, he might cross his heart and hopeto die, but still the boy on the other side of the fence wouldnot believe. "Are, too, " Mitch would say. Then a startled look, an appealing, hopeless fear suddenlyabashed the little boy in the dainty white dress. As he shook theringlets out of his eyes he asked, earnestly: "Why, then, am I a girl?" Here, you see, was another case like the bow 'n' arrow. Mitch didnot have to tell all he knew. He only got proud and spat throughhis teeth and said, "Why?" right back at David. Such a question, you must agree, may be illuminating, but is notsatisfying. The meaning of it seems a bit indefinite andlonesome, but if you are a little boy with ringlets it hasmeaning enough. It hurts mightily. But Mitch was still notsatisfied. "Dear Little Curly Locks, " he said with contemptible sweetness, "oo mustn't get oo dress dirty. " Then did David's fists clench defiantly, and he said an awfulswear. "Dresses!" he exclaimed derisively; "that's all you know aboutit. They're kilts!" This defense was not convincing, for there is no good way, onceyou think of it, to prove that a dress is a dress and that a kiltis a kilt. The only way, I fear, to settle such a controversy isto hit the other boy with a brick. Only David did not have abrick. What he did have was a confused feeling that Mitch wasright. For might it not be true, this horrible thing about beinga girl? What if David was that, and couldn't ever get over it? Now, Mitch, since you are at last in trouvers, here is the timeto prove to this ignominious comrade of yours that in you are theinstincts of a gentleman. Why don't you show David that there maybe a chance for him after all? It would be proper for you toremind him that you yourself used to wear dresses, but of courseyou will make sure to speak of the disgrace as a thing of manyyears ago. But there is no need, Mitch, in counseling David to go toextremes. It is quite unnecessary to inform him that the way topants is a very simple matter. I dread to think that you aretelling him to tear his kilts "all to splinters. " Of course thatcan be done. You hook the skirt over a paling in the fence; thenyou jump, and sometimes, David, it hurts when you hit the ground. But what matter? You are fighting in a noble cause. Mother willbe so astonished! She will see how desperately you have outgrownyour kilts. Only she did not see it. She picked the splinters out of David'shands--cruel splinters from the fence--and she was very sorry forher little boy. And as for the dresses, it was no great matterabout them. She would make other dresses for her David. And that is why Mitchell Horrigan's recipe for pants is not agood recipe. Even at the end of a week David could not reportmuch progress. Finally he had to acknowledge himself defeated. Hethen bore the dishonor of kilts with what manfulness he could andwith a creed which was recited something like this: "We don't care to play with Mitch any more, do we, Mother?" Or again: "We don't care nothing about trouvers, do we, Mother?" Sometimes David would ask with husky heroism: "Curls is all right for little boys, is they not?" David was angry with Mitch; David was never going to speak toMitchell Horrigan any more. His resolution was so strong that hehurried away to tell Mitch about it, but when the boy actuallyappeared, it was hard to remember why one should be angry withhim. His brown feet came flapping along the stone walk, and inhis hand was a freshly whittled stick that made an animatedclatter when he drew it along the fence. There was that in thereckless abandonment of Mitch which did not help David to tellhim that he was too mean and disgraceful to be spoken to. Andbesides, his feelings might be hurt if one were to tell him that. So, as Mitch came nearer and nearer, David felt guiltier andguiltier, and presently he was surprised to hear himself askingrather abjectly: "You isn't mad at me, is you, Mitch?" Trouvers ignored the humble salutation. He took out his knife andbegan to whittle ceremoniously upon the stick. "What you making?" David asked tentatively. "Nothin' much, " said Mitch, with the air of a man who hasinvented steamships and flying machines. "Only a tiger trap. " David knew better. David knew that Mitch, in his insufferableconceit, was merely whittling to show off his new knife. So, pressing his red mouth between two white palings of the fence, David declared in a strong voice: "I have a bigger knife than that. " The assertion was boldly made, but when Mitch asked to see theknife, David decided not to show it. "Bigness don't count, " said Mitch. "It's the steel. " He breathed upon the blade to test its quality. Every boy knowsthat if the film of moisture is quick to vanish, there can be noquestion about the superlative merit of the knife. "Where did you get it?" David was eager to know that, but Mitch decided that he must begoing. He hadn't time to stay here any longer. He intimated thathe had important business to look after. He was going to make akite ten feet tall, and, with the snobbishness of a plutocrat, hewent strutting away. He was almost beyond earshot when hevolunteered this brief information: "My father, he guv it to me. " Had David heard correctly? Did Mitch say "father"? The little boyhad never thought of such an article as a father except assomething which belongs to a story book. Fathers were commonenough in the story books; they were men, but until this momentDavid had never thought of them as being desirable. It nowappeared that they were good for something. Mitch Horrigan hadone. He actually kept a father, and the father gave him finepresents. Reflecting upon all this, David became a very quiet little boy. There seemed to be nothing interesting for him to do. He had noappetite for supper, and in his face was the look of one whodreams of such mighty things as trouvers, and a hair-cut, and abrand-new knife. And when, at last, it came time to kiss Mothergood-night, he turned appealing eyes upon her, and asked withtrembling lips: "Why don't _I_ never have no fav-ver?" CHAPTER II RUE AND ROSEMARY They are not easy to take, siestas aren't. They are the word forgoing to sleep in the daytime when you would rather not. Sometimes you have to take medicine with them, and nearly alwaysyou feel that you must have a drink of milk. It is so easy todiscover that you are thirsty, and besides, it usually gives youa chance to stay awake a little while longer. Frequently you findthat you don't care as much for the milk as you thought you did, but in one way there is always a satisfaction in it. If you havea looking-glass, you can see the white mustache the drink hasleft on your lip. Another satisfaction is that if Mother forgetsto bring your milk in the mug you like best, you can send herright back for it. If David wants to be particularly polite he sometimes asks Motherto tell him her story about the young man with the mustache. Shehas one that is tremendous dull because there are so manythinking places in it. "And then--and then--" Mother will say, and after that the story doesn't get on worth anything. The worstabout it is that it always takes such a long while for her toreach the part which tells of the time when the young man startedto raise a mustache. "How did he start?" David never fails to ask. "By not shaving his lip. " It is now that David feels of his white lip with the tip of hisred tongue and then stoutly declares: "I have not shaved _my_ lip. " "It was brown, like your hair, " says Mother, "and when it wasabout half-grown it began to curl up at the ends. The boys madefun of it, but it was very beautiful and ever so soft and fine. " "Truly, was it?" asks David, and then something blooms pink inMother's cheeks. That is the one interesting thing about herstory, and up to that point he can always stand her narrative verywell; for he is always watching for the pretty pinkness. But whenthat is gone, his interest goes too. It seems very ordinary to himthat this young man should have studied mechanics and become agreat engineer and invented things, and made discoveries. Now, if he had ever been shipwrecked, or if he had ever beeneaten up by bears, or if he had fought Indians, or done someother notable thing with a scare in it, why, _that_ would beworth talking about. But why tell so much about a young man whohad done none of these things? Why speak of the way she hadencouraged him and helped him and studied with him? You can seefor yourself that it was a very stupid tale. It was clever of David, though, to have her tell him the story, for then she would sometimes forget that her little boy was nothaving his siesta. To show her that he was trying to keep up aninterest he would now and then ask a question, as, for example, when she spoke of the honors the young man had won at college. "Could he spit through his teeth?" David would inquire, and itwas always a sad thing to him that this was not one of the youngman's accomplishments. A very disappointing chap, to be sure. "Do you know, my little boy, " Mother would say in a strange, softvoice, "do you know that your eyes are as bright as his eyes usedto be, and that--" "It's a nice story, " David would say courageously, and like asnot, while Mother was still talking about the handsome young manwith the mustache, her little boy would fall fast asleep. It is good, David, that you do not hear the story that is hidaway in the thinking places; it is good that you do not know theworn look which sometimes comes into Mother's face and crowdsfrom it all the pretty pinkness that you love to see. You willnever know that other look which was often in Mother's facebefore you came to nestle in her arms and frighten it away. Youhave done well, brave soldier-man, for now I am right sure shedoes not wonder any more why the day should have come when theone she had helped so much should have forgotten the help andbeen thankless for all the love that she had given him. CHAPTER III THE WORLD'S END Sometimes, when David was working hard on his siesta, Motherwould tell him that he was to whistle as soon as the Sand Mancame. But even that doesn't always help. You have to ask so manytimes to make sure that the Sand Man _hasn't_ come, and after youhave been told repeatedly that you are not yet asleep it makesyou discouraged. You know, too, that you mustn't cheat; it's notfair to whistle until you actually see the Sand Man. Hardly anything is so wearing on a little boy as to wait. This isespecially true of siesta-time, when there are always such anumber of interesting things going on outside. Through theshutter's chink the yellow sunshine comes squirting into theroom--such amazing sunshine, just as it is on circus day! Only tothink of what great events must be in progress while you andMother lie here together in the darkened room, and tosshopelessly in the dreadful throes of trying to get through withyour siesta! One of the mean things about it is that neither side of thepillow has any cool spot. You turn it over once more and oncemore, and yet once more again, but it is no use. It is utterlyimpossible to cuddle down and obey orders and go to sleep like abrave soldier-man. The more you try it the more squirmy and itchyyou feel; for at such a time one is usually fretted by therepeated ticklings of some bothersome fly. He will sneak alongthe edge of the pillow and rub his hands together in front ofhim, and then he's ready. Down he swoops upon your nose, hittingit precisely in the same place where he lit before. It is easy for Mother to say, "Go to sleep, now, " but what badshift a little boy will sometimes make of his siesta! There came a day in June when David believed he never in thisworld could get through with it. He heard the chuck and drowsyclack of the sprinkling-wagon as it ponderously advanced upon itslazy way; he heard the almost whispered clucking of a mother-henwho was calling her chicks to come shuffle with her in the coolloose earth under the shade of the crooked old apple-tree, andpresently there came a time when the out-of-doors was all sostill that even the falling of a shadow would have made a sound. David was right sure of that. There was such mystery, such anunwonted sense of unreality a-quiver in this silence, that hewanted, very much, to learn what it was all about. Then, ever andever so cautiously, he slipped down off the bed. His dimpled toeswent patting daintily across the polished floor, and presently hehad stolen forth upon a great adventure. His eyes narrowed; hewinked rapidly; so dazed he was with the sunshine and thestrangeness of a world that had never looked like this before. He had found out where summer is. It was here in Mother's garden, and you knew it was, for you could feel it in the stillness, andyou could see it in the sleepiness of blossoms that drowsed anddrooped and hung their lazy heads in the languishing sweetness ofgood air and golden sunshine. It was all very strange and verydear to David. The sky had never before been so blue, and neverso big nor deep nor cool, and the ground was pleasantly warm andnice. As the seeded grass touched his ankles he could feel warmshivers run over his legs, delightful thrills which came to himthis day for the first time. He had found out where summer is. David paused, and listened, and heard nothing. The whole worldwas listening. By and by a honey-burdened bumblebee began talkingto himself; you couldn't quite understand what he said because hemumbled and bumbled so. David knew he was such a very tired andsleepy bumblebee that nobody could understand what he was talkingabout; and besides, he wasn't nearly so wonderful as a bigbutterfly that balanced with blazing wings upon a nodding rose. He was too heavy for the wee, sweet flower. David was right surethe butterfly should have rested less heavily there, for prettysoon the bonnie bloom came all apart and began to fall. One afteranother the crimson petals slipped away, and dipped and floatedand came falling and falling down. David was confident that hecould hear the warm whisper of them as they fell, so in tune hewas with the summer and the sunshine, out here in Mother'sgarden. It was good he had stolen forth into the ardent glory of thenoon-time, for if he had not he never would have learned aboutthe place where the world stops. Only a few of us have found outabout that place. You don't think about it at all, and then, pretty soon, you _do_ think about it. The way David learned ofit was a new way. He laid him down upon the petunia bed--dear, old-fashioned flowers, lavender and pink and white, that peepedbetween the palings of the white fence--he laid him down andsmelled deep the good, queer smell of them, and like the flowersthemselves, he, too, peeped between the bars into the vast worldwhich lay beyond. And that is how he learned of the place wherethe world stops. Down a long, long lane--down there, a little way past thecottonwood tree, where the lane quits going on, that is where theworld stops. You know that is the place because of the awesomenessthat comes to you. The old cottonwood stands sentinel over thatregion of the Great Beyond. So tall and big and still he is thatif you look at him awhile you will get the strange feeling ofthings. High up in the glossy leaves one can sometimes hear alittle pattery sound, finer than the crinkle of tissue paper--apretty little sound like a quiet sprinkle of cooling rain. When hedoes that he is whispering to the clouds that bring the freshnessof the summer shower. Beyond him, down there where the world stops, is the place wherethe clouds go to sleep after their long, slow journeyings acrossthe deep, sweet blue of the sky. "What does my little boy see with his two big, shining eyes? Andwhat does my little boy hear?" It was Mother's voice above him that was thus humbly askingadmission into the strange world he had found, and so well sheknew it was marvelous fine, this world of his, that she snuggledhis cheek against _her_ cheek, and tried and tried, in her poor, grown-up way, to understand all the pretty things the greatsilent tree was whispering to the clouds. "Is it there?" she asked very softly and very earnestly. "Is itdown there that the clouds go to sleep?" And they remained together, these two, side by side, thinkingabout the sweet go-to-bed place of the clouds. A silence whichwas new to them, a cool and reposeful silence, had come upon themand held them. They were conversing in a language which has nowords. It was a melody in silver--the spirit of motherhood, thesoul of childhood blending into music, bringing them nearer, deepening their love and making it more dear to them. They understood each other, that woman and that little boy. Theydid not move. David had taken hold of Mother's hand, and he heldto it while they kept on looking down there, afar off, where thegreat silent tree was softly whispering to the summer clouds. CHAPTER IV DEAD SEA FRUIT "Why don't I never have no fav-ver?" Often David asked that question; upon awakening and upon going tobed he was pretty sure to make inquiries that were neversatisfactorily answered. And now, one morning, it was a decidedrelief to Mother to have him ask something else. With eagerquestioning he said: "Am I?" Early, very early, he had awakened her to ask her that, for hehad been told, on going to bed, that when the day should comeagain he would be four years old. Twice in the night he hadasked if he was It; so when the dawn at last showed with alovely pinkness in the lacy folds of the curtains, and the noteof a far-away meadow-lark called him into the glory of birthdayhappiness, he wanted to be very certain that this famous periodof his life had actually come. Before demanding if it were quite true, he lay still awhile andthought about it. He looked at Mother's face, and snuggled hisfingers into the fairy foam of her nightgown, but the face andthe fairy foam at her throat had not changed in the least. Theywere just the same as they had been yesterday and the day beforeand the day before that. It was very strange. He had supposed that when a little boy isfour years old, his life would be somehow--different. That is whyhe was still in doubt; he was not at all sure about being fouryears old. He would wake up Mother and then, if he _was_ It, shewould make him feel that he was. Her reassurance, though, was not nearly so satisfying as he hadhoped. "Yes, dear; it's your birthday. Now go to sleep awhile, mypretty. " David lay very still, but he did not go to sleep. By and by heasked rather uneasily: "What do you do first?" "What do you mean, little boy?" "Little? _Am_ I little?" "Of course you're growing, " Mother told him. But David would not be deceived. Already the suspicion had cometo him that there was nothing grand about being four years old. It was not a success; it was a failure, and his one hope nowrested in Dr. Redfield, for this was the morning when the Doctorhad promised to waylay the little boy. "How does _that_ begin?" David asked. He could not think what itwas that began. "How does _what_ begin?" Mother inquired. And that was not nice nor reasonable of her. Mothers are made toanswer questions, not to ask questions, and they are sodiscouraging when they can't understand about being waylaid!David felt abused, but he decided to have one more try at her. Then, if she didn't give him satisfaction, he would know thatFour Years Old was all a humbug. As he looked longingly into herface, his words faltered, as though he were again expectingdisappointment. "Will he--will he wear his big, shiny hat when he does it?" Into Mother's face came a puzzled, half knowing look. Sherecalled the admiration inspired in a certain little boy by acertain abominable top hat that a certain doctor had once worn toa certain annual meeting of the State Medical Society. But thiswas the extent of her knowledge. "When he does what?" she asked. The little boy's lip trembled, and he turned away his face. Hesaw it wasn't any use. Mother didn't understand; she evidentlyhadn't tried. It was plain that he was not four years old; he wasonly three. It is very hard on little boys to be only that oldwhen they have made up their minds to be four. So, when David wasbeing dressed, he suffered all the while with a severe case ofwhat is commonly called pouts, but which in reality is somethingmuch sadder. "My, my!" said Mother, as she drew a stocking over the pink toesof his right foot, "one mustn't look like that on his birthday. " "It is not my birthday, " he said, not impertinently, but politelyand woefully. Even a pair of new shoes did not prove that this was hisbirthday, and yet they helped to prove it. One gets them at suchtimes as Christmas and birthdays, and such a delightful squeakwas in these shoes that David could scarcely eat his breakfastfor wanting to walk about in them. If a circus should come totown, he would now be ready for it; he had the shoes. Andbesides, there were tassels on them--wonderful tassels. It ismuch easier to be a brave soldier-man if they have tassels. Do you know what it is to be a brave soldier-man? Well, to bethat, one must be kind and sweet and unselfish and do right. Anddoing right is doing mostly what you don't want to do. To wash alot--that is right; to keep your fingers out of the pie--that isright; to keep your hands from spilling mucilage on the cat'sback--that is right. If you make dents with a tack-hammer inMother's piano, that is not right; that is a surprise. The only safe way of doing right is to think of what you wouldrather do, and then do something else. But often this is suchhard work that sometimes one doesn't care much about being abrave soldier-man. For all that, it's jolly fine to have soldier shoes. They came toDavid in time to save his faith in the business of being fouryears old. It now began to have a glad feel about it, and hewalked perkily to the garden's edge, and like a new Columbusabout to discover a fresh world, climbed up experimentally andsat on the gate-post. He was not at all sure that this was a proper place to getwaylaid, but something monstrous fine would of course happenbefore long; there could be no doubt about that. How people wouldbe astonished when they came along and found that he had grown tobe four years old! Who would be the first, he wondered, to be shocked and surprisedat him? While he was thinking of that, his eyes suddenlybrightened with excitement. The street-sprinkler, the dear oldstreet-sprinkler, was coming! David's heart beat faster as helistened to the slow creak and clacking oscillation of the heavywheels. Then came the damp, dusty, good smell which alwaysbrought to him such a sense of mysterious romance! No prince outof a fairy story could be more marvelous to him than the coatlessdriver up there on the seat under his great canvas umbrella thathad advertisements printed on it. Always when the street-sprinklerpassed, David had watched it covetously, and now was his chance. He would proclaim himself. He would not have to wish--andwish--and wish any more about it. That proud place up there by thedriver was for him. He didn't doubt it in the least; he called; hecalled lustily; he kicked his new shoes against the fence-post andcalled: "Here I am! See, right down here!" But will you believe it, now? The driver didn't look at him. Perhaps the lazy clamor of the wagon and the hissing sound ofthe steadily gushing water made too big a noise for the voice ofsuch a little boy to be heard. Do you call that any way for the street-sprinkler man to act? Butof course there might be some good reason for such criminalbehavior. David remembered that he hadn't consulted any fairygodmother about it; long since he would have done so, only hecould never catch any fairy godmothers hanging around. They werealways busy somewhere else. Even Mother herself had failed tointroduce him to any competent, respectable fairy godmothers. Shewas all right on telling about them; she was strong on that, butsomehow they never seemed to know when they were wanted. That istheir great fault; they are so unreliable. Once let them getloose from a Cinderella book, and their business system isalways defective. How, then, can a little boy expect to accomplish any miracleslike riding on the street-sprinkler? It is not reasonable; Davidhimself decided that it wasn't, and he concluded to try somethingmore feasible, something that looked simple and easy and morenatural. Next time he would do better. Why shouldn't he? When oneis four years old, nearly anything ought to be possible. All hehad to do was to await another opportunity, and then pounce downon it. This time, though, it was slow in coming, and when it did come itdidn't look much like an opportunity. It was too easy. In shapeit was a very ragged man with a very dirty face and a very rednose and a very greasy hat. He came by, a-munching on an apple, abig apple, a crispy-sounding apple, a shiny ripe and lusciousapple. How cool it would feel in a little boy's hands if he wereto hold it tight and then take a big, sweet, juicy bite out ofit! Should David accept the remainder of the man's apple? No, thatwould not be right; little boys must not be greedy. Just theteeniest, weeniest, wee bite would be quite sufficient for him. But, heigh-ho and alack-aday! the dirty-faced man and thered-nosed man and the man with the greasy hat passed slouchilyon, a-munching and a-crunching of his apple. That was enough. David cast himself down from the fence-post ofdeception and was off for the house, his arm before his eyes, andhis new shoes creaking dolorously. He must find refuge inMother's lap; she must help him to soothe away his hurt; he musthave solace for this wretched failure of great hopes. But before reaching her, David suddenly found himself seized bysome mysterious force which sent him floating into space. Backand forth he swam like, a pendulum, and when he alighted, it wason a man's shoulder, and the man was Dr. Redfield. "You're not hurt, are you?" he asked. David would not be comforted. He struggled to the ground. "What's the use?" he demanded between sobs. "What's the use ofbeing four years old?" CHAPTER V THE MUG OF WOE "New shoes! Where in the world did we get new shoes?" Dr. Redfield was the first to rightly appreciate the grandeur ofthem, and he was delighted to hear how they could squeak. Landsakes! but they were wonderful. Greatly astonished he was, and soswollen with pride was the little boy that he didn't care--not sovery much--even if his old friend had failed to put on his tophat. "Are you going to do it?" That was David's first question. He was rather anxious, becausehe did not believe that this big comrade of his had comeproperly attired to waylay anybody. "Surely I am. " The Doctor was prompt, but puzzled. He didn't know _what_ he wasgoing to do. Then, for a space, man and boy looked at each otherinquiringly. They were both waiting and they were both wondering. "Has it begun to start yet?" There was expectancy in David's voice. "You mean, I suppose--that is--" "Yes, yes! _You_ know!" David gravely wagged his head. The Doctor took off his hat and wiped his forehead with hishandkerchief. "If you were a little more definite--not quite so vague anduncertain, " he hopelessly suggested. It was then that a sudden inspiration saved the day for him. Hebegan to talk in a big and solemn voice. "I perceive, sir, " he said, "that you have reached the age forbeing waylaid. You are four years old, and by an ancient decreeof all the Medes and Persians, that makes you my prisoner, tohold in hostage until that ungracious dame, your mother, shallsubscribe unto me suitable and sufficient ransom. " David clapped his hands gleefully. "Go on!" he demanded. "Go on! Now what?" "Well, when you have all that said to you, it means that if youfind a doctor skulking about within ten feet of you, it is thenyour perfect right to press him into your service. If you commandhim to give you a ride on his back, he will have to do it. It'sundignified and he doesn't believe in it, but that's where youhave him at your mercy. He _has_ to obey; he has to go any placeyou tell him to go. If you say he must take you to a toy shop, that settles it. He has no choice in the matter. He _has_ to doit. That is always the rule when a little boy is four years old. " David also learned that there is another peculiar thing about it. In circumstances like this a little boy has the right, when hearrives at the toy shop, to choose for himself the thing he wantsto buy. No grown-up will interfere with his judgment; the lawwon't allow it. The trouble is that it is pretty hard for him tomake up his mind. When there is such a great array of drums andswords and soldiers' caps and guns and bears that jump, it is notan easy thing to select the toy that will please him most ofall. Why not buy a train of cars and a track to run it on? But if hebought that, then how could he get along without a jumping-jackthat threw up its arms and legs when you pulled the string? Andif he took the jumping-jack, then what about an iron savings bankwith a monkey on top that shook his head with thanks when youdropped the money in? Lovely things, all of them, but David putthem from him. He did it with decision, but with a nervous hastewhich told of wavering courage. Such things were not for him. They are only for boys who are notsoldier-men. And besides, they might cost too much. If the pricewent higher than five cents David would be lost, for manyprecepts had been forced upon him in regard to the waste ofmoney, and the value people put on it, and the way they have towork for it. So thus far the nickel had marked the very summit ofhis financial transactions. All the same, a strange wistfulness came into David's eyes whenhe put aside poor jumping-jack. Such a dear of a jumping-jack hewas! You could have kissed the jolly red paint of him, and thepretty toy bank was a thing to hug tight under your arm. That iswhy the little boy's voice was such a weak and far-away voicewhen he presently asked:-- "Would two five centses get him, do you think?" "When it's your birthday, " said the Doctor, "it's all right tospend three five centses. " Here, then, was David's chance. The jumping-jack was almost his, when his shoes squeaked a warning. Thus suddenly was he remindedthat he was a brave little soldier-man. He now saw that such apurchase would be ridiculous. Something serviceable is what hemust have, something that Mother would like and want him to keep. No silly toys for him! But, oh, if only the Doctor would insist alittle on the jumping-jack! David turned reluctantly away; he choked down the queerness inhis throat and firmly laid hands on a gilt-rimmed mustache cup. His lips twitched and his eyes winked, but the look in his facewas the look of a soldier-man. No intervention from the Doctorcould shake his determination. With coaxing insinuation the Doctor said, "We haven't seen allthe things, you know. " Hope kindled in David's eyes. "Maybe, " he said with enthusiasm, "maybe this costs more thanthree five centses. Does it?" "Wouldn't you rather have a drum?" asked the salesman. No, indeed; David would not have a drum. "Or a sword?" asked the Doctor. "No, thanks, " the words came with husky politeness. The cup was the thing for him; it would please Mother. She wouldbe so glad about the cup! Here, again, was disappointment. She didn't seem pleased withit--not nearly so pleased as she should have been. But nevermind, little boy; every generous heart is quick to forget theunselfish kindness that is in it, and you yourself will not beslow to forget this foolish sacrifice you have made for love ofone who has made many a sacrifice for you. She has made them, little boy, in love, and forgotten them in love, and that, David, is the beautiful thing in loving. CHAPTER VI "FAV-VER" When David is an early bird it is great fun to show Mother what asluggard she is. He calls to her to let her know it is getting-uptime, and then she is _so_ amazed! She cannot understand how itis possible for her little boy to get awake almost as soon as therobins do. Sometimes she asks if he is sure he is awake, and hetells her he is sure of it, and then she believes him. Only this morning she did not ask that, and this morning therewas no smile in her eyes. A strange intentness had taken all thesummer look out of her face, and there were no kisses on herlips; for he had troubled her with that repeated demand of his tobe supplied with a father. "Whose boy, " she asked hesitatingly, "whose boy are you?" David returned her steadfast gaze with a queer, impish wisdom. Hesat up in bed and fixed his eyes upon her. "Whose boy?" he slowly repeated. "Why, I'm fav-ver's boy. " "Have you a father?" asked the woman. "If you get one for me I have. " "David, " she said, more serious than was usual with her, "if youhad one I should want him to look like you. . . . Here, little boy, here, in your face I see your father. " The woman had moulded her cool hands to David's smooth, softcheeks, and was looking wistfully into the eyes of her littleboy. But abruptly he struggled free from her; he slipped to thefloor, mounted on a chair in front of the chiffonier and peepedexcitedly into the mirror. A long time he looked at thetousle-headed reflection that looked earnestly back at him. Hefrowned, and the boy in the glass frowned, too. He was a greatdisappointment, that boy; he wasn't the teeniest bit like anyfather that ever was. He was only a child in a white nighty. David faced about; he got down off the chair, and he turned hisaccusing eyes upon Mother. She had fooled her little boy; she hadtold him a wrong story, and it was woful disillusionment. "You cannot see him, David, " she said, "because you have nopicture of him in your heart. " Well, then, did Mother have such a picture? If she did, whycould she not show him that picture? And please, Mother, wheredid she keep that heart where the picture was? Yes, to be sure, she had such a picture, but it was not ofDavid's father; it was of someone else, for she had never seenDavid's father. In her heart was still another picture: it was amemory which had to do with the sad nativity of her little boy. So sad an event it was that she had left off being a head nurseat the hospital, in order to become a mother by proxy. David might some day come to know that there was a fogyish, bachelor doctor who was almost a father in the same sort ofway--almost, but not quite, for the child had been left not tohim, but to her. A home, likewise, was her inheritance, a verypretty little home and all else that had once belonged to thereal mother of the little boy. A brave death she had died, that kinless widow at the hospital. And how could it have been otherwise, when so large a faith washers in the nurse whose arm had gone lovingly around her, andwhose voice, many and many a time, had given comfort and hadknown finally how to smooth the way to death? But it was the Doctor's hand, not the hand of the nurse, that hadgently closed the mother's eyes upon her last long sleep; and itwas he, not the nurse, who had turned wofully away, and staredand stared and stared out of the window. Grave pictures were these that Mother kept in her heart, andDavid was not to know how much he troubled her when he fell toquestioning; and that is why, in the midst of his endlessinquiries, he was wont to encounter the Great Never Mind. Do you know what that is? It is a condition of soul common to allmothers who have little boys that want to know things. The worst of it is that one is expected to understand when he isnever to mind and when he _is_ to mind. They are not the samething; they are twins, and they are so hard to tell apart, and sodisagreeable, and act so much alike that only an expert can tellwhich is which. But Mother was an expert. She knew when you must and when youmustn't; she had a talent for it. She also had a gift for tellingDavid that she would see. If he wanted to go swimming with MitchHorrigan in the creek near town, she said she would see about it, but somehow she never did get it seen about. That was one great difference between her and Dr. Redfield. Hedid not say he would see; if given half a chance he always _did_see, and there was something so magical about him that one felthe was good for a miracle most any time. For all that, it washard to ask him for anything, for when in his presence one alwaysfelt so queer and bashful and overpowered with the strangemedicine smells which were such a big part of him. Yet David nowfelt that no boy has any right to hope for a father if he hasn'tspirit enough to ask for one. So firmly convinced of this was thelittle boy that early in the morning he made up his mind as towhat he would do. It was something very daring and very naughty. He was going to run away. He did it, too, and the awfulness of it got into his throat; forthe Doctor lives farther away from David's house than China is. It is almost at the end of things, and the little boy did notknow whether he could find it. What was even worse, he presentlydid not know whether he could get back home again. He had creptthrough the fence and run and run, and then walked and walked, and now he had decided that he didn't care much about going on. Some other time would do as well; to-morrow would be all right. This did not feel like a lucky day; some other day would beluckier. David felt very virtuous. It seemed to him that he had not meantto run away at all. He was not a bad little boy; he was a goodlittle boy, but he soon began to feel annoyed; for the way homedidn't have any straightness to it; the way home began to getmore and more crooked, and the houses began to seem strange andunfriendly; they stared at him rudely, and none of them lookedeither like home or like the Doctor's house. The sad thing was that he had only one way to tell which was theDoctor's house, and that was a wrong way. He was looking for ayellow dog that scratched his head with his toenails and knockedhis elbow on the board-walk when he did it. Such a dog once layin front of the Doctor's house. So now, as David kept going andgoing on, he was looking out for a yellow dog that should knockwith his elbow when he scratched his head with his toenails. Oncea black dog did it, but that was stupid of him; he needn't try tofool David. After a long, long while a great tiredness came upon the littleboy, and there was such a grinding ache in him that he knewhungry-time had come. He passed a bakeshop that breathed out awarm, steamy fragrance, and in the window there was a great panof red-brown doughnuts dusted over with powdered sugar. As thesmell was like the smell of the bakeshop near home, and as thedoughnuts looked the same, David instantly plucked up courage. Hehurried on, confident that he would soon be climbing up intoMother's lap. It was some time, though, before he found a housewith a white paling, and he was distrustful of the house; it hadno curtains, and it scowled so. He decided to experiment firstwith the fence-post. Maybe the house would look more reasonable, and maybe things would feel different if he were to climb up onthe fence-post. So presently, when he was perched above the gate, he closed his eyes and began kicking his heels as he did when athome. This was another experiment; for every boy knows that you cannothope to see any fairies or any fairy godmothers unless you takethem by surprise. David, for his part, frequently gave them tounderstand that he wasn't looking. He would shut his eyes tightand kick his feet to prove that he was minding his own business. If they saw him like that, maybe they wouldn't care if he was soclose to them. After convincing them that his intentions werehonorable, he would suddenly pop open his eyes to catch them attheir tricks. Once he almost saw them. The tulip bed had seemed to dance in thesunlight like a whirlpool of scarlet and yellow fire; then itstopped abruptly, but the blossoms still nodded and stirred, evenafter the wild dance was done. He was confident that he had comevery near to seeing the fairies, but now he did not want to seethem. They had done something to the house where Mother lived, and he wanted them to undo it. He would not look. They wouldplease understand that this time he did not mean to deceive them. "Cross my heart, " he murmured very solemnly, and gave the pledge. But it did no good. They would not undo the queer things they haddone to the house. They were spiteful and mean, and not to betrusted. The house remained without trees and vines, a scowling, ugly thing. The garden had no shrubs; the seeded grass was matteddown and yellow, like hay, and there were bald places where thegray ground was showing through. They did not know, those foolish fairy folk, of the courage andthe faith that may be in the heart of a little boy. They might bestubborn if they chose; they might keep him waiting, but in theend they would not abuse his patience. All would come right. Onlyit did take such a long, long while for it to get that way!Hungry-time is very hard on little boys when they are waiting forthings to come right, and it was so hard on David that twice hecalled aloud for Mother. A wooden echo, sent back from barns andsheds, dolefully repeated the last syllable of his cry. It wassad mockery, but David held doggedly to his belief that finallythings would come right. His hands closed rigidly upon the sidesof the fence-post, and from beneath the tight-shut eyelids slowtear-drops were squeezing out. It was so that Dr. Redfield found him. With medicine-case inhand, the physician had come down the walk from the desolate, scowling house. As he seized the child in his arms, and as hefelt the small arms of David go about his neck, the word thatgreeted him was "Fav-ver!" CHAPTER VII AS A FOUNTAIN IN THE DESERT The magic that is in the touch of a little boy! There is nothinglike it to drive out the weariness from a heart that knows itmust not grow too tired. So now, when Dr. Redfield left the housewhere he had been, it meant much to him that there should be sucha welcome awaiting him at the gate. It was a gray and worn smile, but still a smile that answered the child's unexpected greeting, and as the wee arms went tight about the man's neck he asked noquestions; he merely said:-- "I wish I were, little boy--I wish I were your father. We wouldhave a rest, wouldn't we? We would take time to know eachother. " As he said this there came into the Doctor's face the same lookwhich he had just seen in the eyes of the father and mother whowere trusting to him to save their little boy. Many times otherfathers and other mothers had made that mute appeal to him, andhe had done what he could for them. He had done all that could bedone. He was doing it to-day, and he had been doing it every daythese past eight weeks that had been as twenty years to him. For a scourge had come, and the city was trembling in the fear ofit. Again Duck Town was responsible. Duck Town always wasresponsible. Every spring when the floods came, and Mud Creekspread itself out over the prairie, only the ducks of Duck Townwere secure. Then, when the waters subsided, there came malaria, or perhaps something worse, from the musty cellars that could notbe drained. The settlement lay in the bottoms, where the wretcheddwellings of the poor stood huddled together as if in whisperedconspiracy about some black contagion of a deadlier malice thanany that had yet struck terror to the hearts of men. Several years ago it was typhoid fever that had helped manypeople to move out of Duck Town. A very badly behaved disease itwas. It came right up into the city and went stalking brazenlyinto the most stately homes along the wooded avenues andbeautiful boulevards. Next after the ravages of typhoid came diphtheria in its mostmalignant form, and this time--Heaven help us!--this time scarletfever had come. And this time, as before, there were competentphysicians to receive the plague; there were specialists andcareful nurses with snowy aprons and pretty caps. But not in Duck Town. Down there the people knew a man whom theycalled the Old Doctor. He was not old, not really; it was merelythat he had the manner of a veteran. He browbeat them shamefully, as was perfectly proper for an old doctor; he bullied them agreat deal, and scolded, and called names, and worked for them, and did not know how to sleep. That made them fear and respecthim, but goodness knows what made them love him. They did, though--feared, respected, and loved the man. Only he could not teach them to be sanitary. He knew their names, their silly Russian names and their silly Polish names; he knewtheir Slavic and their Bohemian names, but their language he didnot know, and all the hygiene they could learn was to call forhim when sickness and trouble came to them. "Keep clean, " he would say. "Drain your cellars; air out and keepclean; do try to keep clean!" But how could they do that? Four big families in one small housedo not help much to keep one small house both clean and sanitary. Dr. Redfield knew that, and he swore at Duck Town for a vile andfilthy hole. So did the people swear at Duck Town, and many ofthem suddenly stopped living there. For, despite the strength andcourage of their champion; despite the potency of drugs; despitethe sleepless nights and days spent in fighting disease, thedeadly contagion grew and spread. Dr. Redfield had gone through epidemics before, but never onelike this, and now his energy was gone. For the first time in hislife the impulse had come upon him to own defeat and surrender. Other men, younger doctors than he, should take up the fight. Asfor him, he could not battle against such odds. He would give itup; he would go away. He would take this little boy with him andbegin to live. "I'll do it, " he said, pressing David's face against his hollowand unshaven cheek. "I'll do it, little boy; I will be yourfather. " Then David asked encouragingly: "Is it your picture that Mother keeps in her heart?" "No, David; not mine, I'm afraid. " This was a sad blow to the little boy. A very solemn look cameinto his face. "You won't do, " he said, "unless you can get your picture intoMother's heart. " For a second time Dr. Redfield smiled, and then he asked: "How did you get here?" David did not answer the question; perhaps he did not hear whatwas said to him. A thoughtful look had come into his face, andpresently he was asking, with great earnestness in his voice: "Why have I got curls for? Why don't I have trouvers? Why don't Ihave warts on me?" Dr. Redfield was walking hand in hand with the little boy at hisside. They were going toward the place where the horse and buggystood waiting, and as they strode along the little boy keptfalling over his chubby legs. It was hard for him to go so fast, for he was very tired, and besides, he was looking up into theman's face. "Warts aren't nice for little boys, " said Dr. Redfield. "You andI don't want them on _us_, do we?" "Don't I, please?" said David, very earnestly. Then he wanted toknow if he could not be born in Indiana. That is where MitchHorrigan had been born, and he was always bragging about it. Butthe Doctor didn't seem to be in a conversational humor. He madeno reply to David's request, and that vexed the little boy. Hesuddenly let go of the man's hand and stood still. Then theDoctor stopped, too, and asked what was wrong. It was now thatDavid closed his fist upon his thumbs and frowned savagely. "I am not, " he declared; "I am not neither a girl, am I?" The reply of his big friend was consoling, but not satisfying, and it was some time before the man again felt the little, softfist in his hand and saw the little boy looking wistfully up intohis face. "If only I had a few of them, Fav-ver Doctor, " said David, "onlyjust a few little warts!" CHAPTER VIII THE GONE-AWAY LADY Proud business for David! Sitting on the edge of the seat of thebuggy, he was holding the reins very tight. One must always dothat if he does not want the horse to kick and run away. Notknowing that the horse was tied to the hitching-post, David wasfulfilling his mission with ceremony, and when Dr. Redfieldappeared from the door of a drug shop across the way, the littleboy called to him gayly:-- "He didn't run away, did he? I held him all right, didn't I?" Dr. Redfield had been absent long enough to use the telephone innotifying Miss Eastman, whom David knew only by the sweeter nameof Mother, that her little boy had been waylaid and wouldprobably not be home to luncheon. She was not permitted to knowthat the pretty rogue had run away, but the man himself stronglysuspected the truth. For some time, though, he charitablyrefrained from speaking of the matter. In fact, three importantevents in David's life took place before the painful subject wasbroached. To eat at the Doctor's table, and wholly without the assistanceof a high chair--that was one of the events; another was ahair-cut, and the third--Everybody, salute! David is in trouvers! He and his big friend both admired them immensely, and it was inthe little shabby, out-at-the-elbow doctor's office that Davidhad been helped to put them on. After he had strutted for awhile his Fav-ver said to him:-- "What fun, David; what fun you must have had in running away!" "Oh, " the little boy replied, "I didn't go far. I got scart andhurried back to Mother. " The Doctor looked wryly at his guest. He knew David had not gonehome after running away. "Did you see Mother after you went back?" he asked. "No, I didn't see her. " "But you are sure you went back?" "It didn't _feel_ back, " said David. "You couldn't have been mistaken about going back?" "No. " "In what part of town were you when I found you on thefence-post?" "Home, " said David. "Why were you crying?" "I was feeling bad. " "And why was that?" "I was scart. " "Of what?" "Everything was so mixed up. " "You ran away, though, didn't you? And you did not see Motherafter you went back?" David nodded, and the Doctor got to his feet with a suddennessthat knocked over his chair. "Good gracious!" he exclaimed, consulting his watch. "It's beenfour hours since you saw Mother, and she may think something hashappened to you. She may think you have been run over byhorses--that you have been hurt and can never come home to herany more. " What was to be done about it? Dr. Redfield wanted to know that;David wanted to know that. The man crinkled up his forehead: herose and began to walk the floor, and David's eyes did not leavehis face. "What are we to do?" the Doctor asked, and by and by he added, "If you see a policeman I hope you will tell him you are not lostand that you did not think of making so much trouble when you ranaway. But what about Mother? Maybe she, too, has been lookingeverywhere for you. " The Doctor sat down and wiped his face, and then got up and beganto walk about once more. You could see that he was very muchdistressed, but not more distressed than David. In sad perplexitythey stared at each other. After everything had grown very stillin the room, the little boy suddenly exclaimed in an awedvoice:-- "Let's go home!" "Well said!" the Doctor called out, and David flew for his hat;they started for the stairs, the little boy clinging desperatelyto the man's hand. "Wait!" the Doctor exclaimed. They had stopped abruptly beforereaching the steps. "Why don't we telephone? If we do that, itwon't keep Mother waiting so long. " It was now that David's eyes began to gleam. He clapped hishands; he laughed and he danced. He was going to put Mother'sheart at rest about him. She would not be troubled any more. Shewould know he was safe. After the message had gone, it was easy to see in David's facethat he was glad he had not run away very far. Fav-ver Doctor hadnot blamed him, but Fav-ver Doctor had made him understand howmuch trouble it makes when little boys run away. "That's what it was all about, " said David. "You mean, I suppose--" "Fairies don't like it if I run off. That's why they changedthings around so. I hardly knew the house; it was fixed soqueer. " "Yes, " the Doctor assented, "it looked shocking queer. How didyou ever know the place?" "They didn't change the fence much, " said David, and the man nowrecognized the one point of similitude between that desolate homedown in Duck Town and the House of Joy where David lived. So grim was the contrast that the Doctor winked uneasily, for itbrought him back to a problem he had thought settled. He hadreally meant to take a vacation. He was so tired; no one knewquite, how very tired he was, and he had thought that for a briefwhile he was justified in leaving the fight to some one else. Heonly wanted a week or so--a little chance to live, to play withthis little boy, and perhaps be happy! Yet, after all, dared heleave those people to other hands when they were counting so onhim, and had so little else to count upon? What, he asked, wouldshe, the Gone-Away Lady, have counseled him to do? Rather nervously he sought the eyes of a miniature on top of hisdesk, and as he looked into the eyes of that sweet-faced woman, the old comfort he always used to see in them when he had stoodmost in need of strength, was no longer there. "In the face of somuch misery, " they seemed to say, "how can you think offorsaking the field?" It was not a picture of David's mother; no, it was a likenessthat had ever kept the Doctor's heart alive to gracious thoughtsand gentle ways; it was the portrait of her who had not lived tobe his wife, and a habit had come to him of fancying in the eyesof his patients something of the same beautiful look that was inthe miniature. Particularly he had done so when David's motherwas struggling hard not to go away from her little boy, andoften, since then, the Doctor had compared the face of thepicture with that of the child; and to-day, as he was wont to do, he took the dainty bit of porcelain in his hand to see if hecould not trace, feature by feature, the likeness he so loved toimagine. The way of this was very interesting to David. He stood by theDoctor's chair and leaned his elbows on the knees of his friend, with his plump chin in the wee, white hands. "Is it your mother?" he questioned. The Doctor smiled. "No, David, but she would have been a good mother. " "Who is it?" "It is some one, " the Doctor slowly replied, "who would haveloved you very, very much. " "Where is she now?" "She went away, little boy; years ago, David, she went away fromme. " "_I_ never saw her, " said the child. "No, David, we cannot see her, but if we keep our hearts open andour lives all sweet and clean, we can be sure she is not faraway. " The little boy had listened attentively, but he could notunderstand, and after careful examination of the picture, hepresently asked: "When is she coming back again?" Dr. Redfield had nothing further to tell. He crossed the room, and hastily replaced the miniature upon the top of the highdesk. CHAPTER IX THE CRIME OF DAVID It is not pleasant to be a criminal; it hurts. David knew he wasone, and although he did not know what crime he had committed, heimagined that he was now being punished for it. The idea came tohim on account of the way the Doctor was acting. The man hadgently replaced the miniature upon the top of the desk, andafterward he stood motionless, sunk deep in revery. The littleboy was trying to guess what he had done. It must be very, verywrong, or else Fav-ver Doctor wouldn't be standing there likethat. He would talk and take notice. David knew this was so, but, try as he might, he could not think what sin he was guiltyof. It was a great puzzle, and, in truth, David was frequentlypuzzled in the same way. For the laws which grown-ups have forlittle boys are so much like any other kind of laws that it ishard to get any justice out of them. Without knowing what it was, David keenly felt his disgrace. Theglory of being in the Doctor's house; the glory of sitting attable in an ordinary chair; the glory of a hair-cut, and even theglory of trouvers--each of these mighty events was now shorn ofits charm. Everything had grown sadly commonplace; for there canbe no satisfaction in achieving greatness, if one is so soon tobe forgotten. So now, with the passing of every instant, thingswere growing more and more solemn. Doubtless the chair on which David was sitting was partly toblame. It was such a slippery seat that if one didn't hold ontight he would be sure to slide right off. There were stickerythings in it, too, for the hair-cloth was getting all worn out. The little boy sat politely on the stickery things and waited. Ifhe waited long enough, maybe Fav-ver Doctor would smile at him asMother always did. At the present time, though, one could hardlybelieve that there were ever any smiles in Fav-ver Doctor'sface--he was looking so hard and so long at nothing at all. Everything in the room was feeling lonesome and guilty and bad;and worst of all was the clock. It was a big, upright, colonialclock, and its counting of time was done with deep and statelydeliberation. If he would only strike the hour, that would help. David remembered with what dignity the clock could strike. Thebrazen reverberations of each stroke always lingered awhilebefore the next one came, and then, when all of them had beenstruck, and the last ringing beat had throbbed and swooned into awhisper, and died, one always felt that other strokes wouldfollow. One looked for them, and waited for them, but they didnot come. To-day nothing seemed to come but the regular, echoing, church-like tick-tock, and to-day there was no diversion of anykind; there was only a large, dark, depressing awesomeness. It is very scareful for a little boy when he feels himself grownto be such a criminal. Immense periods of time seem to beslipping away, but he doesn't know at all whether he is gettingto be really and truly a man, or whether he is getting littlerand littler. There is always the fear of diminishing, because onewould so like to be grown up, and when one is such a bad littleboy, how can he expect ever to be grown up? David felt himselfslipping and slipping. He was slipping back into three-years-old. From that he would go into two-years-old, and before very long hewould be only one. He knew it was coming on. There was a tinglingflush going down his back, a cold current, like ants with frozenfeet. Maybe it was only perspiration, but how was a little boy toknow that? He was gasping with excitement when he suddenly calledout: "Here I am!" The idea was that the Doctor should instantly seize him and savehim from being dissolved into empty air. But no sooner had Davidcalled than he was overcome with shame. At first he wasastonished that his voice should really be _his_ voice. There wasno change in it--not the slightest--and he now saw that he hadonly fooled himself. That is why he was ashamed. He was soashamed that he began to cry. That would not do at all. Fav-ver Doctor said it wouldn't, and hewas so distressed about it that he offered David the rareprivilege of wearing his watch. At any other time the little boywould have been mightily set up over the honor, but at such atime as this no distinction of any sort was for him. He did notdeserve it. He had disgraced himself too much for that, and hepushed the watch from him. He kicked his feet against the chairand rudely exclaimed: "Don't want your watch!" In some ways Dr. Redfield was not different from most of us. Somany years had passed since he was a little boy that he hadforgotten that what appears to be only sullenness may in realitybe something quite different. Perhaps if he had been more likehis normal self instead of being a very tired and a veryirritable doctor he would not have considered it necessary toregard David with the eye of stern discipline. But however thatmay be, the man pivoted suddenly upon his heel and marched out ofthe room, leaving the little boy alone to brood at his leisureupon the sad impropriety of being rude. David wanted to go with the Doctor, but the man would havenothing to do with any little boy who cries without any reasonfor crying and is saucy besides. David could not go. David mustsit still on that chair and must not get up. "I don't like you, " the child called out. Then, as soon as the door was shut upon him, he became a veryangry little boy. He pounced from his seat and began to walkheavily up and down the room. He stamped his feet; he shut histeeth together and he kicked the chair where he had been sitting. He had not been fairly dealt with, and now, as Mitch Horriganwould say, he was going to be just as rotten bad as ever hecould. But it was useless to stamp so loud and clench his fists. Therewas no one to hear him and there was no one to see him. Neitherwas there any satisfaction in knocking over a chair. The outlookwas utterly hopeless. There didn't seem to be any good way ofbeing bad. Presently, though, David had an inspiration. He would get hold ofthe picture the Doctor had talked about so foolishly. David wouldget it and have a look at it. Surely that would be very naughtyindeed. David was confident of that, for the Doctor had been soextremely nice in handling the little miniature. Only there was one great difficulty which stood in the way ofthis famous campaign of badness. David encountered thisdifficulty when he had dragged a chair in front of the high desk. Even by standing on the chair he was not tall enough to reach thepicture; even by standing tippy-toe he could not reach it. Therewas left but the one alternative--he must jump for it, but whenhe did that he knocked it off. It fell with a loud clack to thefloor and broke in two. Then terror seized the heart of David. He did not mean to breakthe lady; honestly he did not, and now--oh, oh!--what was tobe done? The little boy did not have much time to think about it. He heard a heavy tread on the stairs and knew the Doctor wascoming. Perhaps it would do to say that the picture had fallen off itselfand got broken, or maybe it would be better to say that thefairies had done it, or maybe-- Now, at last, David knew the thing to do, and did it. When theDoctor came into the room the little boy was sweetly but notserenely in his place. He was sitting upright in his chair, asthough he had not stirred a hair's breadth during the man'sabsence, but in the eyes of David was a feverish lustre, and thelittle body of him was all of a tremble. "I didn't understand about the crying, " Dr. Redfield announced, and he was very humble. It did not seem odd to him that he shouldcome to confessional before this little boy. He believed that hehad judged too hastily, and he was come to make it right. "Maybeyou were lonesome, " he said. "Maybe you wanted Mother. " David said nothing, and the Doctor went on with that wistfultenderness which comes to us when we feel we have not been justwith those we love. "You _do_ like me, don't you, David?" But the little boy could not answer; he was crying so. CHAPTER X THE NIP OF GUILT Little David was not well; little David was hot and red. After he had been gently laid in the crib he turned restlessly, and from time to time a gasping sob shook his whole body, for hehad cried himself to sleep. He had fallen into a fitful slumberwhile in the Doctor's buggy, and had not awakened when carriedinto the house. "A little feverish, " said Mother, as she pressed her cool handupon his forehead. The Doctor said nothing, but in his eyes, as he bent over thelittle boy, there was something sinister. It was his fightingface, and it was saying to David: "You shall not be sick, little boy. I won't have it. " All the weariness of the man was gone; all his drearydiscouragement was gone. He stood erect, a soldier ready to dobattle against disease which for these past weeks had beenchoking out the life of little children. As the Doctor hurried away he was upbraiding himself for havingbeen absent from his patients not less than three whole hours. Gross negligence, this! He had no right to play so long withDavid, and now he would not take the time to tell Miss Eastman ofall the great things they had been doing. But indeed no words of explanation were required to tell her ofone thing that had been done. Without any assistance she soondiscovered a substantial reason why her little boy was sorestless, and this reason proved to be a miniature. She foundthe two pieces of it hid away in his blouse at the very placewhere they would be most uncomfortable to lie upon. But evenafter she had relieved David of this source of trouble, he stillturned and tossed and talked in his sleep. She could not understand what he was saying, but the face paintedon porcelain seemed easily understood. How, Miss Eastman askedherself, had he come by that picture? Who had given it to herlittle boy, and what had he been told about the beautiful face? An impulse had suddenly come upon the woman to hide it away, orbetter yet, to destroy it utterly. But there was no time forthat. As if from an electric shock, David had flounced over onhis side, and now he sprung bolt upright. Confused emotionsstruggled in his face; his hands searched his blouse, and as theyfailed to find what they were searching for, there came such alook of terror into his eyes that Mother instantly produced theminiature. "Who is it, dear?" she asked. With the same sort of agility which had come to him when he hadheard the Doctor's footstep on the stair, David seized the piecesof porcelain, and with fumbling eagerness he slipped them backinto his blouse. "It's mine!" he called out. He scowled fiercely, as thoughexpecting some one to dispute his claim. "Where did you get it?" "Up there, " he said. "Up where?" Again the little boy was silent, but Mother insisted on moredefinite information. Three times she asked how he had come intopossession of the picture before he would speak again. When hedid so he scowled more heavily than at first, and exclaimed: "I won't not tell you!" "But why, David; why not tell Mother about it?" The child evaded a direct reply. "Doctor will be mad at me, " he said. "Did he give it to you?" The little boy nodded. "Did he say you were not to tell me?" Again the little boy nodded. "Did he tell you who it was?" Now that the wrong story was so well started, David was inspiredto make it a good one. To do that he would use part of the truth, but unfortunately he could not recall much of what Dr. Redfieldhad said about the picture. There was but one word that had stoodout prominently in the talk, and that was the word "Mother. " Itwas a relief to David to remember that, and he blurted out hisinformation with cruel finality. "This, " he said, holding the pieces of the miniature together, "is mother. " "But how can you have two mothers?" Miss Eastman inquired, with asmile that was not a good smile. "Tell me, David, tell me whosemother am I?" "You?" he asked with puzzled anxiety. Then he stopped short. Itis not easy to steal pictures and tell wrong stories about them. He did not know what to do. Everything was against him, and hebegan to cry again. It was now that Miss Eastman passionately seized the little boyin her arms. "Don't you believe that!" she exclaimed, her words throbbing withthe hurt he had given her. "I am your mother, David--I!" CHAPTER XI APOTHEOSIS After declaring that she alone was David's mother, Miss Eastmanwas called away to the telephone. It was Dr. Redfield inquiringanxiously about the little boy. Pulse normal, temperature normal, no symptoms of any sort, she told the physician, but she couldscarcely control her voice to answer his questions. There was atightness in her throat, and she spoke with crisp brevity, instead of detailing anything of what had passed between her andDavid. When she had hung up the receiver and gone back to the child, shetook him in her lap and tried to entertain him with a book of"Mother Goose" jingles, turning the pages slowly and concealingher emotion under the silliness of the nursery rhymes. In themidst of her comical recital about Jack and Jill who went up thehill, she suddenly exclaimed: "What great fun it was to be with Doctor!" No matter how much she might try to divert her little boy, he wasonly indifferently amused; but presently he remembered somethingwhich, for the time being, caused him to forget the broken andpilfered miniature. "Mother, " he exulted, "Mother, I got 'em! They have pockets--deeppockets. You don't hardly know me, do you?" David began strutting up and down the room; he stood still, withlegs wide apart, and then dug his fists deep into his pockets. Of course mother was astounded. It required only a littlemake-believe on her part to indicate that this was some strangeboy whom she had never seen before. The surprising change in himhad impressed her so disagreeably that she had been in no mood tospeak of it. Even as she had taken off the wide-brimmed sailorhat, when David reached the house in Dr. Redfield's arms, she hadmade no comment on the close-cropped, flaxen head. She had ofcourse remarked each detail of the little boy's alteredappearance, but what she had seen even more clearly was the lookin the man's face when he had told her that her little boy wasnot well. It was this that she had seen at a glance, and it wasthis that she had taken deeply to heart, but now she diligentlytried to enter into the spirit of trouvers. All of a sudden the earnest look in David's face was swept awayby a smile. His little legs began to dance; his hands danced, andhis piping laughter danced best of all. Making a prancing dashfor Mother's skirts, he demanded that she smell the good, barbersmell of his hair. But she laughed such a queer laugh, as shegathered him up in her arms, that the gleefulness suddenly wentout of him. "I'm afraid, " she said, "I'm afraid there's not enough left ofyour hair to smell. " The suspicion came to David that Mother was not glad. Instead ofapplauding his fine hair-cut, she had a silly way of asking whathad been done with the curls. This is the way mothers act sometimes when they want to bedownright discouraging. David showed how he felt about it byasking if supper wouldn't soon be ready, and throughout the mealhe bore himself with dignity. Although it is not easy to pass therolls when one's arms are so short and the plate is so large andwobbly, the little boy was sure that to-night he was reaching asurprising distance across the table. Surely Mother must havebeen impressed with this new and astonishing length of arm. When it came bed-time, David felt it would be weakness on hispart, now that he was almost grown to be a man, to allow Motherto continue her absurd habit of sitting beside him while he wentto sleep. He told her very delicately that in the future she neednot go to so much trouble. He was resolved not to be such anuisance. Hereafter he would always go to sleep all by himself. But in beginning this practice he did not think it advisable totake off his trousers. Perhaps he would not feel so man-grown ifhe took them off; perhaps the kilts-and-blouse feeling would comeon him in the night, unless he were consciously secure inknickerbockers. "I--I couldn't keep them on, could I, Mother?" The question cameplaintively, from the very depths of his desire. "But, David, " said Mother, "if you wear them out by sleeping inthem, then how are you to get any more? And besides, don't youthink they need a rest as well as you?" Anybody could see the logic of that. David reluctantly permittedhis trousers to be taken off, and he was particularly eager tosee that they should have honorable treatment. He had amisgiving that Mother did not know where they should properly bestowed for the night, and his doubt thus found expression: "Where does Doctor put his?" The result of the question was not satisfying. David found thathe had brought up suddenly at the never-mind period. But hisclose-cropped head leaned out over the edge of the crib; and hiseager eyes attentively regarded the floppy little legs oftrouvers as they were folded over the back of a chair. Then camea sigh of resignation, and the shorn head was plumped downresolutely upon the pillow. For the first time in many months he forgot to make a littlesmacky sound with his lips as a suggestion to Mother that shemight have a kiss. Evidently such a matter was now of noimportance, nor did he hold out his arms to her. All suchchildish ways as that had been put aside, and perhaps that is whya wistful look came into Mother's face. After she had left David in the big, dark room, she took up somedull-blue linen from her sewing-table. Only a short while ago shehad been stitching upon this apparel for her baby--a foolishlittle dress, all edged about with a narrow lace braid. Mother sat down by the shaded lamp and slipped a finger into herthimble. But her needle, which in the afternoon had glanced andglinted swiftly, as the dainty braid was being fastened intoplace, somehow refused to do its work. The little blue suit fellfrom her hands; the thimble rolled across the floor. Hers was the bereavement which comes to every mother. It comesupon her suddenly, leaving her surprised, wondering, and full offoolish little fears that in the boyhood of her boy she may nothold so big a place as was given her to hold through all hisbabyhood. Where was the child of yesterday? Who had stolen from Mother andher little boy the elfin charm and the sweet wonderland which, for so long a time, had been his and hers together? Gone, as itmust always go, when the little one of to-day goes speeding onand still on into the dust and weary prose of the hurryingyears. CHAPTER XII LIGHT Leaving Mrs. Wilson, a neighbor and friend, in care of the housewhile David slept, Miss Eastman set out for Dr. Redfield'soffice. In her face was determination; in her hand a brokenminiature. The gentleman was to be called upon to explain, if hecould, why he had given that picture to her little boy. "I have been his mother now for four years, " she meant to tellthe Doctor. "I have tried to be a good mother; I have tried mybest. Why, then, should you even suggest to him that I am notreally his mother? If you have done that I must tell you that Ido not think it just. And, besides, I must ask you to make nofurther additions to his wardrobe without first consulting me. Hedoes not look like my little boy any more. You have cut off hiscurls. You said nothing to me about it; you merely cut them off. I did not want you to do that. I would not have consented to it, and I should like you to understand that hereafter he is to besolely in my care, or not at all. " As she rehearsed these words in her mind, Miss Eastman wenthurrying through the streets. Twilight had set in, close andsultry, with low grumblings of thunder, and there was thatstillness in the air, that strange sense of waiting, whichprecedes the storm. Gray, scarf-like films were speeding acrossthe black-purple sky, and were suddenly rent by a zig-zag quiverof blue-white fire. The trees along the walk flamed green, andthen were dark again, and overhead a flight of pigeons clove theair with a rushing of swift wings. An instant later a whirlinglitter of straws, flapping newspapers, and dust came swishingdown the pavement, and with the coming of this first strong gustof wind was a noise of slamming doors and the sound of windowsbeing quickly lowered. With the swift and vigorous whiff of stormcame the good, cooling smell of rain. Miss Eastman paid no heed. She was too indignant and too hurt tothink much about so trifling a matter as a shower, and when shereached the house of Dr. Redfield it further exasperated her thatshe should be kept waiting upon his doorstep. Twice, and a thirdtime, she gave the bell an energetic pull, but no one answered. The gush of water from the roof tinkled loudly in the tindrain-pipes, but throughout the dwelling there was a tomb-likesilence. Presently, though, Miss Eastman heard a "squadgy" treadthat was steadily drawing nearer. When the door was at lastcautiously opened she caught a glimpse of the housekeeper, thediscreet and red-faced Mrs. Botz. As the shiny countenanceleisurely appeared, the woman revealed two flour-coated fingerspressed upon her heavy lips. "Herr Doctor iss maybe gone to sleep already, " she whispered;then she laughed a wheezy chuckle that shook her ponderous bust. She pointed up the hallway to something under the light of theoil lamp which much resembled a fat rag doll. The queer objectwas shaking with strange contortions in the place where thehall-bell should have hung. "I play him one good trick, ain'tit?" she added. "Mit a towel I tie up the bell-knocker--zo!" Sheillustrated with her flour-dusted hands. "Den I wrap him roundlike one sore foot. _Hoffentlich_, nopody vill vake him up if heiss sleeping. " "But why, Mary, why should he be asleep? Is he so tired, then?" "Ach, mein lieber Gott! Do you not know? It iss Duck Town. Voncemore yet a funeral. I know from his face it is this time maybeone little schildt. He carry them in his eyes, the littleschildren, unt he is coming home, unt he say nudding; he cannoteat, unt zo I know vot iss it. " Although this announcement went to Miss Eastman's heart, it wasnot sufficient to outweigh her resolution. She would speakplainly to him. Glancing toward the office, she saw that a dimlight was shining from an open door into the hallway. "I think I shall have to go in, " she said to Mrs. Botz, andstarted for the office. Miss Eastman's determination was firmly fixed. Dr. Redfield mustunderstand once for all that hers was the exclusive guardianshipover David, and with that unwavering idea in her mind she lookedinto the room. She saw him seated under the shade of the lamp inhis faded green house-robe, his shoulders more stooped thanformerly, his shaggy head sunk forward, and a greater wearinessin his face than she had ever seen in it before. All at once, as she stood looking at him, her grievances dwindledinto pettiness. The words she had come to speak were dumb uponher lips, forgotten in a womanly impulse to go to him, to put herarms about that tired head, and to hold it as though he werenothing more than a little boy. So, presently, when he glancedup, it did not seem at all strange that she should be asking:-- "How is it down there? Very bad?" One would have thought she had accused him of surrender. Heturned upon her with fierce irritability. "Who says we're not getting on?" he demanded. "Who says--who saysnothing can do any good?" He grasped the sides of the chair and struggled to his feet. Hestood erect like a general, his eyes suddenly lighting up withthe fire of inflexible will. Then he was seized with a tremblingfit, and sank back in his chair. He rubbed his hands over hisgray face; he clenched his fingers, and the knuckle of his thumbwent to his eye and got wet in doing it. And it was all soawkward, and so boyish, and so funny, this movement of his fistand the tear-drop on his thumb, that Miss Eastman would havelaughed if she had not been crying. "Who was it, Doctor--who was it that died to-day?" He told her who it was, and she could not believe him. "Jim Lehman's child? Not Emma--surely not little Emma Lehman? Howis that possible? Such a very short time ago it seems since I waslending her story-books! She couldn't speak English at all whenshe first came to school. " "You knew her, then?" "Knew her? She was the only one who cried when I told them Iwould not teach school any more. She gave me a present once--awoeful, comical Christmas present, a big, clean-washed, smoothpotato. That was all she had to give, and she had tied coloredstrips of tissue paper about it to make it good enough. " Miss Eastman inquired about other children, one by one, as thoughcalling the roll. At first he evaded her questioning, giving suchvague and equivocal replies that presently she clearly understoodthe situation. "It is epidemic, " she said, "and you have been keeping this fromme. How long since it began?" "The worst is over, " he answered, with something of the oldheartiness that made the sick take courage even in their hour ofdarkest trial. But he was reluctant to talk much of conditionsin Duck Town; and presently, during a lull in the conversation, Miss Eastman laid the pieces of the broken miniature on the tablebefore him. "Was this David's mother?" she asked. As the man took up the two parts of the broken portrait heglanced apprehensively toward the top of his desk. The picturewhich used to stand there was gone. "Where did you get this?" he questioned. "As soon as they get into trousers they get into mischief, " shereplied, and again she asked whether that was a picture of thelittle boy's mother. With gentle fingers Dr. Redfield fitted the parts of the picturetogether, sorrowfully shook his head over them, and then, as awan smile creased his tired face, he said:-- "David asked me if she was _my_ mother. Has the little rogue beenclaiming her for _his_?" Miss Eastman slowly answered: "She does look a little like--" "Yes, " the doctor interrupted, "more than that, I shouldsay--more than a little like David's mother. From the first timeI saw that poor dear woman I thought so, and yet I was neverquite sure that my fancy had not created the resemblance. It wasan unaccountable likeness, and yet so strong a one that it meantmuch, very much to me. " "I must take this home again, " she said, "for to-morrow David isto bring it back to you. He must tell you all about it--how hegot into trouble. We shall come early in the morning, and he willstay here with Mrs. Botz, while I go with you. " "Go with me?" The bushy eyebrows of Dr. Redfield raised withinquiring astonishment. "You cannot go on forever like this, " she replied. "You must letothers help. I think I can be rather useful down there in DuckTown. I shall be here early in the morning to go with you. " The Doctor said nothing. He merely clasped the woman's hand inhis two hands, and the look in his face was the look of thatlittle boy called David, when somebody has been good to him. CHAPTER XIII THE SUBSTITUTE To Mrs. Wilson, the neighbor who had spent the better part of twohours with David, Miss Eastman was saying, "_Must_ you go?" Surely it is conclusive proof of superior intelligence inwomankind that any of the sex can understand when she is wantedand when she is not wanted, although the idea in either case isconveyed in precisely the same words. Miss Eastman, for her part, was honestly grateful to Mrs. Wilsonfor having remained with David during the early part of theevening, but now Mrs. Wilson could go home and come againanother day. Miss Eastman did not say that; of course not! Whatshe did say was, "_Must_ you go?" Mrs. Wilson saw she must. This, however, did not prevent her fromapologizing for her departure, and on the door-step still anotherimportant subject was to be considered: the kindness of Mrs. Wilson in staying with David. Mrs. Wilson averred that suchtrifles were not to be spoken of. It was nothing at all. It hadbeen no trouble, indeed it had not; it had been a pleasure. Mrs. Wilson said she believed in being neighborly. Finally, when the merits of being neighborly had beenexhaustively commented upon, the women again made preparation tobid each other good-evening. "Come over and see us. " "Yes, thank you, I shall. " "Come over any time. " "Yes, I shall, thank you, and _you_ come over. Don't wait for me. I hardly go any place. " Mrs. Wilson was moving her broad and well-intentioned personsidewise down the porch steps, which still shone wet in the broadwhite light of the moon, already looking serenely out through thechangeful interstices of the breaking storm clouds. Miss Eastmanwatched her safely to the bottom step, but I regret to say thatshe went into the house even before her neighbor had disappeareddown the glistening front walk. Alone at last! She sighed with relief, and in the darkness of thesilent house she stole to the door of David's room that she mightlisten there with some slight motherly apprehension, and thenpeep in at the little white figure on the bed, where themoonlight lay asleep. Behold David, not greatly changed in looks. The cutting away ofhis curls did not make such a difference in him as Mother hadsupposed. He was as charming to her; he was as much her ownlittle boy as though no meddlesome hands had even been laid uponhim. In size he was quite the same, and, as Mother stood peeringin at him, she presently heard a small, far-away voice. In it wasthe whispered awe of a child who feels the bigness of the nightabout him and the strangeness of silvery moonbeams on his face. "Mother!" The queerness of everything was so very big that the little boy'svoice almost got lost in it. "Yes, David, Mother is here. " "Are you coming to bed?" "Do you want me to come?" "I got trouvers, " he said. But there was no pride in thisannouncement; there was a touch of disappointment. For how is itpossible to have trouvers and at the same time to call babyishlyfor your mother? "Yes, David, you have them. " A pause. The little boy was sittingup, with a bare foot held meditatively in his hand. A wee, forlornfigure of a child he was, who seemed to be listening to thesilence of the room. And by and by he was asking dispiritedly:-- "You aren't--you aren't afraid, are you, Mother?" "How can I be afraid when I have a soldier-man to look out forme? Are you afraid?" No, indeed; David was not afraid. He flopped suddenly back uponthe bed, and resolutely turned his face to the wall. Mother neednot sit by him. So she went back to her chair and rocked quietly, and thought ofa little child who was struggling hard to be more than a littlechild. Later, as she was preparing to go to bed, she heard thewee, sweet voice of him asking ruefully if she were not--maybe--alittle lonesome. "I'm afraid so, dear, " she reluctantly admitted. One could see that this made a difference. If she was reallylonesome she might now come into the bedroom; she might sit byDavid; she might even tell him a story if she wanted to. "If you do, " he said, "it won't matter to-night. It will help youto get use-ter to having me all grown up. " In the trail of soft radiance across the pillow Mother could seehow wide open were the eyes of her little boy, but not long aftershe had drawn a chair to the bedside the drowsy lids began todroop. "If you're real lonesome I'll hold your hand, " said David, and hewent to sleep still holding her hand. Before he was awake the next day she stood looking at her littleboy in the darkness of early morning, and she lighted the gas inorder to have a better look at him. According to an unvaryingcustom, there was one wee fist cuddled under his cheek--awretched insurgent of a fist that had ever disdained all ordersto abide under the coverlet. Often in the night Mother had bowedover the tiny sleeper to press her lips upon the plump, smoothwrist before lifting the pretty arm to tuck it softly away intothe quilted warmth of the bed. And during such a time it was herwont to listen, in the fear that is never far away from the heartof motherhood, to know if his breathing was quite regular andsweet. It sometimes happened, when she felt the tickling thrillof his ringlets against her cheek, that she would want to wakehim up instantly to ask if he was not a dear. But now had come a time when she felt no impulse to rouse him. Thetouch of curls upon her cheek she would not feel any more. Theywere gone, and that baby of hers was gone. When he presentlyawoke, his greeting was characteristic of his altered condition. He did not call to her, he did not crow with laughter of goodfeeling and fine health. He merely sat up and solemnly whispered:-- "Trouvers!" Mother assured him that they were not a dream. He could get upnow and put them on, for presently he and she would be settingout to see their old friend, Dr. Redfield. Little David did not instantly hop out of bed, as she hadsupposed he would. Little David sat very still. He looked atMother and at the floor. Then he suddenly lay down again andturned his face to the wall. "You want to put them on, don't you?" Mother seemed greatly puzzled. She waited, but David did notmove. He said nothing. It was as though he had grown suddenlydeaf. "You had a fine time yesterday, didn't you?" she asked, but Daviddid not reply. He flattened himself against the wall. And Motheradded: "It was great fun, wasn't it?--to go to the barber shopwith Doctor and afterward to get trouvers?" There was no sign of life in the little boy, until presently hisfoot began to wiggle. By degrees he turned over and slowly satup. Mother did not seem to see him; she was seated at a low tablestrewn with toilet articles that sparkled under the rays of thegas-jet. She was dressing her hair, and her arm swung in long, even strokes; from time to time she paused to wind something fromthe teeth of the white comb about her fingers, which sheafterwards tucked deftly into a small wicker box beneath thetilted mirror. In the meantime David was looking at her with avery long face, and by and by he slid quietly off the bed andwent to her, pressing himself against her knees. "What else, " she inquired, "did Dr. Redfield give you?" David did not answer. He pushed his face deep into Mother's lap. "Didn't Doctor give you something else?" "No. " The word came with smothered indistinctness, but its meaning wasunmistakable. "What, nothing?" David raised his head and caught hold of Mother's hand. He hadgrown very red in the face. "Then what about the picture?" she asked, giving no heed to hisembarrassment. "Where did you get that?" Both of David's fists were now clinging fast to the woman'shand. "Mother, " he said, "I just tooked it. " "Oh, dear me!" "Mother, I knocked it down. It broke. I tooked it. " A sudden silence had got hold of the room. The little boy's headsank once more into Mother's lap and he shook with silent sobs. Amoist warmth went through her skirt and was felt upon her knee. "This is hard on the Doctor, " she said, and her voice was firm, but her hand gently stroked her little boy's hair. "He let youlook at the picture, and now it is spoiled. He had only the one, and can never get another like it. You broke it, and you took itfrom him. We cannot mend it; it is done for. My, my! what are weto do?" David's arms went tight about Mother's knees. In mute anguish heclung to her, pleading for help without saying a word. "If only we had another picture!" Mother suggested. Would--would that do? All of a sudden David had stopped crying. With the wet, shiny, tear-trails across his cheeks he looked up. "Mother!" His eyes were wide open. "In your drawer, " he said, buthis voice was so small he could hardly make himself heard, "inyour drawer there is one--a fine picture!" "Is there?" Eagerness was in Mother's tone; hopefulness was inMother's look, but the look vanished and left nothing butdisappointment in her eyes. She had remembered a little goldenlocket in a drawer of the chiffonier, a locket that held thehandsome face of a young man. She had never shown the picture toher little boy, and was not aware that he knew anything about it. "That will never do, " she told David. "It does not belong to you, and it cannot be given away. It must be kept always. People carea great deal for--some pictures. They have a meaning which isoften one of the very best things life can ever have. If youshould be taken from me, and if I should still have your picture, that would be almost the best thing I could have. You see how itis. If some one should take the picture, I could never getanother that would mean so much to me. " They began to walk up and down the room. The little boy wasclinging to Mother's hand and he kept tangling his pink feet inthe folds of his night dress, while his tearful eyes were fixedsteadfastly upon the earnest face above him. "Mother!" he suddenly called out, "where's my scrap-book?" David had found a way. He and Mother hurried to the bookcase. Ingreat haste they rummaged the shelves; magazines were pushedaside; pamphlets and papers were pushed aside--Good! Here it was, that scrapbook. Wild with excitement David began thumbing thepages; he laughed; he tore some of the leaves. Then he pounceddown upon his chief treasure, a picture which Mitch Horrigan hadwanted to buy with some strips of tin, a broken Jew's harp, and awad of shoemaker's wax. A great masterpiece, this. To the eyes of childhood nothing couldbe more beautiful. It was a pink and pensive cow with a slightclerical expression, a very dignified animal, caught in the actof sedately skipping the rope. "Splendid!" Mother exclaimed. "Yes, " David answered, gasping with relief. Then he chuckled intriumph, and Mother did, too. When the picture had been detachedfrom the page the little boy held it tenderly in his hands. Nothing must happen to it until it could be used in making thingsright with the Doctor. There had been so much excitement over the cow, so much delightover securing a sacrifice to take the place of the Broken Lady, that when Mother began to dress her little boy she imagined thatall thought of trousers had gone from him. But it was not so. With prompt disfavor he regarded the blue suit of kilts edgedwith lacy braid, and although there was reluctance in Mother'sheart, she began to look for the missing knickerbockers. Every mother must come to it. She must help us tug and pull atthe clumsy things even if there comes something to tug and pullat her heart. What matter if there be a voice within her that iscrying out to the child of yesterday to linger yet a littlelonger in the dear winsomeness that will so soon be gone? Call asyou will, poor mother; your boy will not heed you now, for theway to manhood is long to travel, and we men-children cannot waituntil you, with your pretty dreams, are willing to have us go. CHAPTER XIV SKY BLOSSOMS David had learned a trick of loudly clacking his heels upon thewalk to make it seem that he was no longer a little boy. With thepicture held firmly in his hands he went strutting proudly atMother's side when they fared forth this early morning for theDoctor's house. The street was very still and smelled of yesterday's rain. In themoist hush and semi-darkness which precedes the dawn, thebuildings were all silent and buried in mystery, and they gaveback a distinct replication of David's footstep. In response tohis question as to what other little boy was out of bed soearly, Mother answered:-- "That is no one, David. What you hear is an echo. " "Why can't I see Echo?" "One never does see him. " "Is he a fairy?" "Rather. " Here ended the conversation. And now, as Mother and Son trudgedonward in silence, a strange feeling came upon the little boy, for the world at this hour was so new to him. A distant milkwagon, resembling a block of shadow on wheels, went clatteringover the pavement, and from time to time a man smoking a pipe andcarrying a tin pail would pass by with long, swinging strides. The upper air looked different, too. At one place a tall churchspire, topped by a copper cross, was blazing with sunshine, andcertain windows of the high buildings also began to flame. A pinkcloud lay asleep in the blue lap of heaven, and there was asingle star, like a pale drop of fire, that trembled up there asthough it were about to fall. "What is that for?" asked David. "What do you mean, my son?" "Up there, Mother--see! It is a queer eye. It winks at us. " "One of the flowers of heaven, little boy; that's what it is. " "Did you ever have any?" "Oh, no, David, because they are so hard to get. " Miss Eastman felt that in the serene beauty of the morning therewas something vaguely troubling. To think that all thisloveliness of the clear dawn, all this freshness of the sweet airwhich to her and to David meant the joy of an exquisitefairyland, could yet mean to others only the beginning of anotherday of sorrow, of death, and squalid misery! How could it bepossible that the children of Duck Town, those who should be ashappy to-day and as full of health as this little boy of hers, were still held fast in the grip of terrifying disease? All the same, it was not a pleasant prospect to think of leavingDavid with Dr. Redfield's housekeeper. As Miss Eastman consideredthe situation she was suddenly seized with cowardice. She did notwant to go on to assist in the fight against contagion; shewanted to turn back, and she began to walk more slowly, loitering, regretting her resolution and seeking a pretext toretreat. For all that, she presently arrived at the Doctor's house, andat the door-step she was greeted by Mrs. Botz, who appeared witha gay shawl over her head and a letter in her hand. "Zo early yet!" the housekeeper exclaimed. "You yust save me sometroubles. Herr Doctor say I am pleased to take you his letter. " "He wasn't expecting me, then?" "_Ich weiss nicht. _" "He's waiting, isn't he? He hasn't gone, I hope. " "Ja, Herr Doctor he iss vendt. " "Oh, that is too bad!" Miss Eastman exclaimed with outwardregret, with inward gratification. Her heroic purpose to help inthe routing of disease from Duck Town had at least beenpostponed. She tore open the envelope which Mrs. Botz had given her, as shebegan to read the brief communication, a slight puff of windstirred the wet maple boughs overhead. From the drenched leaves awee shower of liquid sparks came flashing down about her and thelittle boy. Some of these pattering drops were caught in the softmesh of Miss Eastman's hair, where they trembled like rare jewelsand scattered the morning sunlight into rainbow gleams. "There they are Mother--sky-blossoms!" David called out. Heclapped his hands gayly; he was greatly excited. "They havefallen down out of heaven, and you have caught some of them. " Mother said not a word. She seized David in her arms. Her eyeswere wide open; they were as bright as the raindrops, and she wasbreathing ever so fast. "This letter, " she said, "this letter, little boy, is for you. Listen, David, only listen. . . . No; let us wait until we get homebefore we read our letters. " When, presently, they were safely back in the House of Happiness, this is what Mother read to her little boy on her lap:-- "'_To Mr. David Eastman_. "'ESTEEMED SIR:--If you are in need of a father, I would like thejob. Will you please file my application? And will you please askyour mother if you may have me? Ask her, David, if I may not liveat your house. Tell her, David--tell her, my little boy, that Iwill be a good husband to her, and love her always. '" The child took the written page from Mother's hand and looked atit knowingly. "I have a letter too, " she said, but she could scarcely speak;she was trembling so, and it seemed ever so hard for her tobreathe. But indeed and indeed, hers was not a letter to be proud of. Itglowered; it smelled like a drug shop; it told her plainly thatDuck Town was no business of hers; it told her to stay at home, to mind her own affairs and to go on being a good mother to herlittle boy. But one sentence, the one at the end, was quitedifferent. "Tell me, " it said, "for I need very much to know; tell mewhether David has not put my picture into your heart. " The Riverside PressCAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTSU. S. A. * * * * *