Part 15 (2/2)

”Always, Morry.”

The Gracious Step-one knew his name!

”Then Jolly didn't know this kind,--we never s'posed there was a kind like this! Real Ones must be like this.”

And while he lay in the warm shawl, in the soft haze of the night-lamp, he seemed to fall asleep, and, before he knew, it was morning. Ellen had come.

”Up with you, Master Morris! There's great doings to-day. Have you forgot who's coming?”

Ellens are stupid.

”She's come.” But Ellen did not hear, and went on getting the bath ready. If she had heard, it would only have meant quinine or aconite and belladonna to drive away feverishness. For Ellens are very watchful.

”They'll be here most as soon as I can get you up 'n' dressed. I'm going to wheel you to the front winder--”

”No!” Morry cried, sharply; ”I mean, thank you, no. I'd rather be by the back window where--where I can watch for Jolly.” Homely, freckled, familiar Jolly,--he needed something freckled and homely and familiar. The old dread had come back in the wake of the beautiful dream,--for it had been a dream. Ellen had waked him up.

A boy would like to have his father come home in the suns.h.i.+ne, and the sun was s.h.i.+ning. They would come walking up the path to the front-door through it,--with it warm and welcoming on their faces.

But it would only be Dadsy and a step-one,--Jolly's kind, most likely. Jolly's kind was pretty,--_she_ might be pretty. But she would not come smiling and creeping out of the dark with a halo over her head. That kind came in dreams.

Jolly's whistle was comforting to hear. Morry leaned out of his cus.h.i.+ons to wave his hand. Jolly was going to school; when he came whistling back, she would be here. It would be all over.

Morry leaned back again and closed his eyes. He had a way of closing them when he did the hardest thinking,--and this was the very hardest. Sometimes he forgot to open them, and dropped asleep. Even in the morning one can be pretty tired.

”Is this the Dear Little Boy?”

He heard distinctly, but he did not open his eyes. He had learned that opening your eyes drives beautiful things away.

The dream had come back. If he kept perfectly still and didn't breathe, it might all begin again. He might feel--

He felt it. It folded him in like a warm shawl,--it brushed his forehead, his cheek, his lips,--it made him dizzy with happiness. He lay among his cus.h.i.+ons, folded up in it. Oh, it made up,--it made up, just as it had in the other dream!

”You Dear Little Boy Whose Legs Won't Go!”--he did not catch anything but the first four words; he must have breathed and lost the rest.

But the tone was all there. He wanted to ask her if she had brought the Rec-om-pense, but it was such a risk to speak. He thought if he kept on lying quite still he should find out. Perhaps in a minute--

”You think he will let me love him, Morris? Say you think he will!”

Morris was Dadsy's other name. Things were getting very strange.

”Because I must! Perhaps it will make up a very little if I fold him all up in my love.”

”Fold him up”--that was what the warm shawl had done, and the name of the warm shawl had been Rec-om-pense. Was there another name to it?

Morry opened his eyes and gazed up wonderingly into the face of the step-one.--It was a Real One's face, and the other name was written on it.

”Why, it's Love!” breathed Morry. He felt a little dizzy, but he wanted to laugh, he was so happy. He wanted to tell her--he must.

”It makes up--oh yes, it makes up!” he cried, softly.

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