Part 15 (1/2)

When Ellen came in to put Morry to bed she found wet spots on his cus.h.i.+ons, but she did not mention them. Ellens can be wise. She only handled the limp little figure rather more gently than usual, and said rather more cheery things, perhaps. Perhaps that was why the small fellow under her hands decided to appeal in his desperation to her. It was possible--things were always possible--that Ellen might know something of--of step-ones. For Morry was battling with the pitifully unsatisfactory information Jolly had given him before understanding had conceived the kind little lie. It was, of course,--Morry put it that way because ”of course” sometimes comforts you,--of course just possible that Jolly's step-one might be different. Ellen might know of there being another kind.

So, under the skilful, gentle hands, the boy looked up and chanced it. ”Ellen,” he said--”Ellen, are they all that kind,--_all_ of 'em?

Jolly's kind, I mean? I thought poss'bly you might know one”--

”Heart alive!” breathed Ellen, in fear of his sanity. She felt his temples and his wrists and his limp little body. Was he going to be sick now, just as his father and She were coming home?--now, of all times! Which would be better to give him, quinine, or aconite and belladonna?

”Never mind,” sighed Morry, hopelessly. Ellens--he might have known--were not made to tell you _close_ things like that. They were made to undress you and give you doses and laugh and wheel your chair around. Jollys were better than Ellens, but they told you pretty hard things sometimes.

In bed he lay and thought out his little puzzles and steeled himself for what was to come. He pondered over the word Jolly had looked up in the dictionary for him. It was a puzzly word,--Rec-om-pense,--but he thought he understood it now. It meant something that made up to you for something you'd suffered,--”suffered,” that was what it said.

And Morry had suffered--oh, _how!_ Could it be possible there was anything that would make up for little, limp, sorrowful legs that had never been?

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

”If I'd ever had a real one, it would be easier,” Morry thought wistfully. Of course, any amount easier! The mothers you read about and the Holy Ones you saw in pictures were not quite real enough.

What you needed was to have had one of your own. Then,--Morry's eyes closed in a dizzy little vision of one of his own. One that would have dressed and undressed you instead of an Ellen,--that would have moved your chair about and beaten up the cus.h.i.+ons,--one that maybe would have _loved_ you, legs and all!

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

The step-one a boy would like to have come home with his father seemed to materialize out of the dim, soft haze from the shaded night-lamp,--seemed to creep out of the farther shadows and come and stand beside the bed, under the ring of light on the ceiling that made a halo for its head. The room seemed suddenly full of its gracious presence. It came smiling, as a boy would like it to come.

And in a reg'lar mother-voice it began to speak. Morry lay as if in a wondrous dream and listened.

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

”Oh yes'm, thank you,” he managed to say. ”They're under the bedclothes.”

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

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

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

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

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

To think of that!

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

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

”A Rec-om-pense.” It was out.

”Oh, you Guesser--you little Guesser! You've guessed the second time!”

Was that what it was like? Something you couldn't see at all, just feel,--that folded you in like a warm shawl,--that brushed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth,--that made you dizzy with happiness? You lay folded up in it and knew that it _made up_. Never mind about the sorrowful, limp legs under the bedclothes. They seemed so far away that you almost forgot about them. They might have been somebody else's, while you lay in the warm, sweet Rec-om-pense.

”Will--will it last?” he breathed.