Part 13 (1/2)

She was ready at seven o'clock, and sat, a little patient statue, watching the nursery clock. Marie, who had planned to go out and had intended setting the hands of the clock ahead a little, was unwarrantably angry with the Child for sitting there so persistently.

”Come,” she said, impatiently; ”I've got your night-gown ready. This clock's too slow.”

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

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

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

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

”This is my room,” the Child introduced, gayly. The worst was over now and all the rest was best. ”You've never been in my room before, have you? This is where I keep my clothes, and this is my undressing-chair. This is where Marie sits--you're Marie to-night!”

The Child's voice rang out in sudden, sweet laughter. It was such a funny idea! She was not a laughing Child, and the little, rippling sound had the effect of escaping from imprisonment and exulting at its freedom.

”You never unb.u.t.toned a little girl before, did you? I'll have to learn you.”

”Teach you,” he corrected, gently.

”Marie says learn you. But of course I'll say 'teach' if you like it better,” with the ready courtesy of a hostess. ”You begin with my feet and go backwards!” Again the escaped laughter. The Child was happy.

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

”Now it is time to pray me,” the Child said, dropping into sudden solemnity. ”Marie lets me kneel to her--” hesitating questioningly.

Then: ”It's pleasanter to kneel to somebody--”

”Kneel to me,” he whispered. His face grew a little white, and his hand, when he caressed lightly the frolic-rumpled little head, was not steady. The stone mask of the man dropped off completely, and underneath was tenderness and pain and love.

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

The Child slipped into bed and slept happily, but the man who was father of the Child had new thoughts to think, and it took time. He found he had not thought nearly all of them in his afternoon vigil.

On his way back to his lonely study he walked a little slower past the other lonely study. The stooping of the slender figure newly troubled him.

The plan worked satisfactorily to the Child, though there was always the danger of getting the days mixed. The first mother-day had been as ”intimate” and delightful as the first father-one. They followed each other intimately and delightfully in a long succession. Marie found her perfunctory services less and less in requisition, and her dazed comprehension of things was divided equally with her self-gratulation. Life in this new and unexpected condition of affairs was easier to Marie.

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

There was a slight stir in the doorway.

”'s.h.!.+ don't move--sit perfectly still!” came in a whisper as a slender figure moved forward softly into the room.

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

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

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

”_I_ want her every day, Mary!”