Part 11 (2/2)

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

It was Uncle Larry who carried him home, asleep still, and laid him gently on his own little bed. Uncle Larry's bearded face was s.h.i.+ning in the dark room like a star. The tumult of joy in the man's heart clamored for utterance. Uncle Larry felt the need of telling some one. So, because he could not help it, he leaned down and shook the Little Lover gently.

”You little foolish chap, do you know what you have lost? You were right there--you might have heard Her when She said it! You might have peeped between your fingers and seen Her face--angels in Heaven!

Her face!--with the love-light in it. You poor little chap! you poor little chap! You were right there all the time and you didn't know.

And you don't know now when I tell you I'm the happiest man alive!

You lie there like a little log. Well, sleep away, little chap. What does it matter to you?”

It was the Little Lover's own guardian-angel who kept him from waking up, but Uncle Larry did not know. He took off the small, dusty shoes and loosened the little clothes, with a strange new tenderness in his big fingers. The familiar little figure seemed to have put on a certain sacredness for having lain on Her cus.h.i.+ons and been touched by Her hands. And She had kissed the little chap. Uncle Larry stooped and found the place with his lips.

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

”I wish I knew for very certain,” the Little Lover mused. ”I could ask Uncle Larry, but I hate Uncle Larry--” Oh! Then it wasn't a dream. It was true. It all came back. The Little Lover remembered why he hated Uncle Larry. He remembered it all. Lying there in his little bed he smelt the beautiful smell again and followed it up to the roses on Her dress. They were Uncle Larry's roses, so he hated Uncle Larry. He always would. He did not hate Her, but he would never go to see Her again. He would never nod or smile at Her again in church. He would never be happy again.

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

The days went by until they made a month,--two months,--half a year.

The pain in the Little Lover's heart softened to a dreary loneliness, but that stayed on. He had always been a lonely little chap, but not like this. He had never had a mother, and his father had nearly always been away. But this was different. Now he had n.o.body to love, and he hated Uncle Larry.

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

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

”Why, Reggie! Why, poor little man! Look up. What is it, dear?

Reggie, you are crying!”

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

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

”Do it? Do what, Reggie?”

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

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

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

He nestled his cheek against Her sleeve and rubbed it back and forth, back and forth, while he thought. A mother--then there would be no more loneliness. Then there would be a place to cuddle in, and somebody to tell things to. ”I'd _ravver_ a mother,” the Little Lover said.

Chapter X

The Child

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

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