Part 13 (2/2)

”Then there is only one way. Last night she prayed to have things changed round--”

”Yes, Polly?”

”We'll change things round, d.i.c.k.”

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

Chapter XI

The Recompense

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

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

The dictionary was across the room, and you had to stand up to look up things in it,--Morry wished it was not so far away and that you could do it sitting down. He sank back wearily on his cus.h.i.+ons and wished other things, too: That Ellen would come in, but that wasn't a very big wish, because Ellens aren't any good at looking up words.

That dictionaries grew on your side o' the room,--that wish was a funny one! That Dadsy would come home--oh, oh, that Dadsy would come home!

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

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

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

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

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

”Thank you,” Morry said, politely. It's easy enough to remember to be polite when you have so much time. ”Now I'd like Jolly,--you guess he's got home now, don't you?”

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

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

”Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Jolly! Come right in and take a chair,--take two chairs!” laughed Morry, in his excess of welcome. It was always great when Jolly came! He and the Troubles were not acquainted; they were never in the room at the same time.

Morry's admiration of this small bepatched, befreckled, besmiled being had begun with his legs, which was not strange, they were such puffectly straight, limber, splendid legs and could _go_--my! Legs like that were great!

But it was noticeable that the legs were in some curious manner telescoped up out of sight, once Jolly was seated. The phenomenon was of common occurrence,--they were always telescoped then. And nothing had ever been said between the two boys about legs. About arms, yes, and eyes, ears, noses,--never legs. If Morry understood the kind little device to save his feelings, an instinctive knowledge that any expression of grat.i.tude would embarra.s.s Jolly must have kept back his ready little thank you.

”Can you hunt up things?” demanded the small host with rather startling energy. He was commonly a quiet, self-contained host.

”Because there's a word--”

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

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

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