# Little Boy

[Illustration: IMMEDIATELY THE CAR WENT THROUGH, THE GATES HAD BEEN CLOSED BY THE LODGE-KEEPER, WHO WAS BILLY'S UNCLE]
Little Boy
HIS WANT, MATCHING THEIR NEED, MAKES TWO HEARTS HAPPY
By J. J. Bell Author of “Wee Macgreegor,” “Whither Thou Goest,” etc.
Illustrated by John A. Williams
I
BILLY sat in the sunshine, a small, hatless figure in clothing very black against the whiteness of the lodge steps. A book, open at a colored picture, lay across his knees, but it had evidently ceased to interest him, for his gaze strayed from the great gates on his left to the avenue on his right and back again. So it had been straying for about an hour, though, to be sure, he would have told you that “hours and hours” had passed since the great gates had been opened to let out a splendid motor-car containing a smart chauffeur and a rather cross-looking gentleman who stared at him for an instant and then returned to reading a newspaper. Immediately the car went through, the gates had been closed by the lodge-keeper, who was Billy's uncle, and whom Billy had not yet got to know very well, except as a terribly tall man who seemed to want to be kind, but didn't exactly know how to go about it. After closing the gates, which he did as though he were fond of them, the uncle had nodded to Billy, saying, “Be a good boy, and see and not get into mischief, and do what your aunt bids ye.” Which was just what Billy expected him to say, though he had stayed at the lodge only a week. Then the uncle had gone briskly up the avenue.
Since then nothing at all had happened.
Through the open door behind him Billy heard his aunt moving about the little house. He heard other sounds also—sounds of washing, scrubbing, sweeping, even the flip of a duster. It seemed to him that his aunt was always cleaning something or telling him not to make something dirty. He was sure he had been very careful since he came to stay with her, and yet the cleaning went on from breakfast-time till supper; sometimes he heard it after he was in bed. Why didn't she let him help her? He had helped his mother about the house when he was only four; and now he was six. But once, when he had proffered his services to his aunt, she had laughed not unkindly, saying, “Tush, laddie, run away and play!” And Billy had nearly replied, “But I've no one to play with”; indeed, he would have said it had not a painful lump come into his throat, warning him that he must “run away” quickly if he did not want her to see him crying. Billy had not asked himself whether his aunt loved him or not. He took it for granted that she did, for she gave him all the good food he could eat, and a pretty, cozy little bed, and had seemed really sorry when he had fallen off the steps the day after his arrival. But he did wish she would allow him to love her. He had the same feeling about his uncle, but could not think of any way of “helping” him. Still he would gladly have walked up the avenue with his uncle—who had work in the hothouses and gardens—and met him coming home, and taken his hand, if his uncle had so desired. But his uncle—no, perhaps it was his aunt—had said that Sir Henry and her Ladyship would not like to have a strange little boy about the grounds, and that Billy must always be careful to stay near the lodge.
Now, had Billy been a little girl he might have been happy enough in the sunshine, with a doll to play with, or a fairy-book to look at, or a “shop” to keep on the steps (though that would probably have annoyed the owner of the steps), or even a day-dream. But the heart of a little boy is not so self-supporting: it can dance as lightly as hers, only it cannot so readily supply its own tune; left to itself it asks too many questions. Not that Billy particularly craved the company of other children just then; any company, so long as it were kindly, would have satisfied him. In some ways he was “'old fashioned,” albeit he still believed in fairies and giants. You—if you were one of those people who are always talking about understanding children (as if that were a simple matter)—would have said that the little boy sitting solitary on those white steps was not a proper boy at all, because he made no attempt to play, because his hands and face were clean and his broad linen collar spotless; you would, possibly, after three minutes' conversation, have called him “girlish,” because his eyes were beautiful, his speech soft, his manner gentle, his feelings (if you touched them) intensely sensitive. But were you an ordinary person with any heart worth mentioning, you would simply have wanted to sit down beside Billy and put your arm around him.
Billy had been wearying for something to happen. And nothing had happened. He began to feel lonely. He tried his book again. He could not read, but he knew the stories by heart, and he whispered them over to himself as he turned the familiar pictures. The book was an old friend, but somehow it failed to prove a comforting companion at this time. Perhaps it even made him feel lonelier. You see, his father had bought it for him, and his mother had taught him the stories.
Presently he let it slip from his knee; it fell down the steps upon the gravel. He descended after it, and was about to pick it up when the painful lump came into his throat. For a moment, his hand to his mouth, he looked at the open door. Then he turned and ran up the avenue. Only a few yards, but the sob could be contained no longer. He stumbled from the gravel path into the wood. A few yards more, and, hidden by a large rhododendron, he let himself fall on the rank grass and dead leaves. And there he cried softly but sorely. Even the heart of a child knoweth its own bitterness.
Yet happily such bitterness, though in the heart, is not of it, and after a season flows forth with the tears. Billy's weeping came to an end at last, but he was still breathing unevenly when he rose to his knees and rubbed his wet eyes and cheeks with his sleeve, forgetting that he possessed a handkerchief. His grief and his close acquaintance with mother earth had not improved his appearance. His countenance was tear-stained, his yellow hair was tousled, his hands were rather dirty, and there was a grubby mark on his collar. But he did not see or consider these things, and, encouraged by the thought that no one had witnessed his crying, he got upon his feet and looked about him. He felt that he ought to return to the lodge, but something suggested his taking a few steps farther into the wood. Perhaps that something was the Spirit of Adventure; at any rate, Billy obeyed the impulse. After a brief halt he took a few steps more. This occurred several times, until he found himself standing on a narrow and apparently little-used foot-path.
[Illustration: “LITTLE BOY, WHAT IS THE MATTER?” AMID THE SOBS THAT WOULD NOT BE CHECKED CAME THE BROKEN, DESPERATE CRY, “OH, MOTHER! MOTHER!”]
There was a hush in the wood, broken only by an occasional bird-note, but plenty of light, for the trees were not yet in full leaf. He heard a cuckoo, which made him feel comfortable, for he remembered a clock that produced the same sort of sound. He was not much disturbed when he realized that he did not know in what direction the lodge lay. He decided to follow the path. A path always led one somewhere, and this path was particularly attractive. It reminded him of a path in one of his pictures called “The Way to Fairyland.” Billy could scarcely believe that he, being a mortal (he wished he had remembered to ask mother what a mortal was exactly), could ever get there. Still—
He trotted along, his heart growing lighter and lighter. Now and then he stopped and stooped to examine fir-cones, but did not touch them, never having seen such things before. Possibly he was relieved that they neither moved nor made noises, and he was careful to avoid treading on them. Until now Billy's existence had been passed in cities and towns, with an occasional trip to the larger seaside resorts, for it was among crowds that his parents had made a living. A third-rate singer and a fourth-rate fiddler, they had not, perhaps, been very exemplary people, but at least they had loved their little boy devotedly and shielded him from much that was deplorable. They had died of enteric fever within a week of each other, and after several months of residence with various relatives Billy had been received by his uncle and aunt at the lodge, not without many misgivings on the part of the middle-aged, childless couple. But so far the boy had puzzled rather than troubled them.
Billy had not walked far when he saw before him a high wall. It had a forbidding look, and he would probably have turned back had he not perceived a gate. Also, the gate was made of iron bars, and, as everybody knows, such a gate is so designed that little boys may peep through it. Billy, with vague thoughts of a giant's castle, approached the gate on tiptoe and peeped through. Then he was glad he had come.
He gazed upon a big garden—at least, it seemed big to him—with high walls all around it. In the wall opposite was a green door, closed, and at some distance beyond he saw the upper part of a large house. The walls of the garden were covered with fruit-trees, many in blossom, pink and white, but the garden itself was filled with flowers, and every flower was white. Some of the flowers, especially the narcissus—he knew them as “white lilies”—were familiar to Billy, for he and his mother had sometimes bought them in the London streets. There was a spacious bed of them in the midst of the garden. And on the white-blaize path around the bed walked a lady in a pale-gray dress.
At the first sight of her Billy fell back, but as she did not notice him he drew close to the bars once more. She was a beautiful lady, and her hair was yellow like his own. She walked slowly, and never raised her eyes from the path, or it may have been the narcissus-bed. Sometimes she clasped her hands in front of her, and Billy saw little flashes; sometimes she let them fall by her side. He wondered why she never looked up.
Quite suddenly Billy was reminded of his mother in her last “singing-dress.” He choked, turned, took two steps, and collapsed, his face hidden on his arms.
The beautiful lady had looked up at last. For a moment it seemed as though she were going to run away. Then, with a pale face, she came swiftly to the gate.
“Little boy, what is the matter?” Her question was scarce more than a whisper.
Amid the sobs that would not be checked came the broken, desperate cry, “Oh, mother! mother!”
And at that the beautiful lady became paler still, and wavered, and clutched at a bar of the gate. “Wait, little boy; wait till I get the key,” she said unsteadily. “The gate has not been opened for so long—so long.” As she ran to a summer house not far off she repeated the two words with trembling lips.
The rusted lock resisted, but at length she forced the key round and drew the gate open. Billy was struggling to his feet.
“Don't run away; don't be afraid,” she said gently, noting the badly fitting black clothes which Billy was “wearing out” ere he grew too big for them. “What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself? Did you fall? Tell me, little boy.”
“Oh, mother!” he cried again, his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving. Blindly he turned to go. But her hand fell softly on his arm.
“Little boy,” she whispered, and there her voice failed her. She slipped to her knees, and her arm went around him. She shivered as if with pain.
Then Billy felt himself being drawn close to her—closer yet. He did not resist. He yielded. He allowed her to take his hands from his face. And then his face was at her bosom, and both arms were around him, and a hand was tenderly patting him. While yet he sobbed, a most wonderful peace fell upon him, a most exquisite sense of comfort pervaded his heart. But presently he became aware that the beautiful lady was crying, too. He didn't know what to do, and he couldn't say anything. But his arms of their own accord went around her as far as they could reach, and clung.
“Little boy, little boy,” she whispered.
Later the beautiful lady invited him into her garden, and Billy, his hand in hers, assented readily, almost blithely.
First they went to the summer house, at the side of which was a water-tap. With her handkerchief she washed away the tear-stains from his face, and afterward bathed her own eyes.
“For, you see, little boy,” she said, “we don't wish other people to know we have been crying.”
“No, we don't,” said Billy, deeply interested in the tap. She asked him his name.
“Billy. I'm six.” He had learned that grown-up people who ask your name always want to know your age also.
“Six!”she said after a little while, and sighed, and turned her face away.
“Why are you sorry?” Billy inquired anxiously.
“Come,” she said, touching his hair, “would you like to walk round my garden? I want you to tell me about yourself, Billy. How did you find your way here?”
“I was feeling sorry, and I just came.” He gave her hand a small squeeze. “You was glad to see me, wasn't you, ma'am?”
“I—yes, I was glad to see you. Perhaps you would like to come here and play, another morning?”
“Oh!” he cried. “Play here—with you? Would you play with me?”
Her free hand went to her heart. “Perhaps,” she answered, with an effort. “Oh, little boy, little boy, if you only knew— But now”—her voice steadied “tell me where you came from.”
Within the next hour she drew from him his little history.
“And you like staying with your aunt and uncle at the lodge, Billy?”
He nodded. He certainly liked it now. But a look of alarm came into his face. “They'll be angry—” he began in distress.
[Illustration: “LIKE TO COME FOR A RIDE, BOY?'” SAID THE GENTLEMAN WHO WAS DRIVING]
She understood. “Shall I come with you and explain? I think I had better. And I could tell your aunt to let you come here mornings when you have nothing better to do, until your school days begin. I am nearly always here in the morning, when the weather is fine. Sometimes I read, and sometimes I sew, and sometimes I just walk about. Take care, Billy! Your boot-lace is loose. Shall I tie it for you?”
He could not manage it, so once more she went on her knees to help him. And Billy, his heart overflowing, flung his arms about her neck.
“You're kind, you're just awful kind,” he whispered, and was shocked when the beautiful lady cried again, holding him to her breast.
But soon she reassured him, promising not to cry the next time he came; and when the troublesome lace had been tied she rose and gave him her hand, and after another visit to the water-tap they set off for the lodge.
So happy days began for Billy. He did not see the beautiful lady every morning, but she always let him know in advance when she would not be in the garden, so that he should never arrive at the gate and meet disappointment. In fine weather they played in the garden. At first she did not play particularly well; would stop in the middle of a game and send Billy to the far end of the garden to find a certain kind of flower; but afterward she did better. And when the weather was not quite fine she read stories to him in the summer house, where now and then they had a small picnic. Sometimes, too, they played in the wood. And Billy loved her more every day. And she—ah, well, you shall see.
II
The trees were now in full leaf. From the avenue a whispering sound came to Billy, sitting on the white steps, for there had been a storm in the night, and though the rain was over, the wind was not yet exhausted. Billy was no longer clad in dingy black; he wore a smart sailor suit with brass buttons. The suit had arrived mysteriously, and his aunt had told Billy to ask no questions, but to wear it and keep it clean, and not think he had got it through any merit of his own; while his uncle had expressed the hope that Billy would always be a good boy, do as he was bid, and not get into mischief.
This morning Billy was chiefly engaged in listening to the trees, admiring the glint of his buttons in the sunshine, and wishing it had been a “garden day.” To-morrow seemed so far away. A drawing-book lay on his knee, but the breeze made the pages flap, and he had given up attempting to copy the squares and oblongs and triangles. From the lodge came the sounds of scrubbing and the slop of a wet cloth; but these sounds were now so familiar that he scarcely noticed them But he pricked his ears as a humming sound mingled with the whisper of leafage. The sole event of the morning was about to take place.
The lodge-keeper appeared round the corner of the lodge, glanced at his big silver watch, and solemnly proceeded to open the great gates. Billy wished, as he wished every morning, to be allowed to help, but did not like to ask. A minute later the car came gliding down the avenue. Billy prepared to touch his cap—now a nautical affair with “H.M.S. Dreadnought” on the encircling ribbon—as his uncle had instructed him to do. But his finger stopped in midair, for the car, instead of humming past as it usually did, came to a standstill right before him. Billy's surprise was equaled only by his uncle's.
“Like to come for a ride, boy?” said the rather cross-looking gentleman who was driving.
“What?” cried Billy, astounded, petrified.
“Billy!” began his uncle in a tone of reproof.
The rather cross-looking gentleman signed sharply for silence. “Come along, Billy,” he said pleasantly, so pleasantly indeed that the boy rose, dropping his drawing-book, came down the steps, and clambered into the tonneau.
“That's right,” said the rather cross-looking gentleman. “Will you be all right there alone?”
Billy smiled bravely.
The gentleman motioned to the chauffeur to go behind, then, apparently changing his mind, gave up the driving-seat to him, and went behind himself.
“Back about one,” he said to the lodge-keeper, as the car slipped through the gateway.
“Well, I'm blest!” said the lodge-keeper to himself, and after closing the gates went straightway to his wife.
Billy's blue eyes were big, as the car, gathering speed, spun along the high road, but his wits were coming back. And first of all he remembered that he must be polite. So, when he heard a voice asking whether he had ever been in a car before, he replied, “No, sir.” And when asked if he liked it, “Yes, sir.”
All the same, he was not quite comfortable on the leather cushion, gripping the outer edge with both hands; and when the car took a curve he thought he was going, and, with a cry, made a grab at his companion—and missed him. But in the same instant a strong arm was around him, lifting him back to the seat and holding him there.
“That better?”
“Yes. Yes, sir; but please hold me.”
The gentleman gave a queer laugh, but held him a trifle tighter. About ten minutes later the gentleman said,
“Enjoying it—er—Billy?”
“Awful! Yes, sir.”
After that they spoke very little. About noon they stopped at a farm, where Billy got a glass of milk, and the farmer's wife called him “her bonnie boy” and hugged him when he offered to kiss her. It is only the little boys who get plenty of kisses who really object to them.
They were nearly home when Billy, glancing up at his new friend, in whom he had already acquired the utmost confidence, inquired,
“Why are you sorry?”
“Sorry! Why do you think I'm sorry?”
“You look sorry—sir.”
“Oh, never mind the 'sir,' Billy. Perhaps I can't help it—perhaps I always look sorry.”
“No; you mostly look cross.”
“Oh!”
“But not now,” said Billy leniently. “Now you look sorry and nice.”
“My dear little chap!” said the gentleman very softly, but when Billy looked up again his face was as cross as ever.
Billy could not understand it, but he was not afraid, and moved an inch closer.
“I say, Billy, would you like to come with me again, to-morrow morning?” the gentleman asked, when the great gates were in sight.
“Oh, yes! But—but I can't come.” Billy remembered that the morrow was a “garden day.” Perhaps he regretted the fact, but he was not too young for loyalty. “You see,” he began—it was his way of introducing explanations.
“Can't come?” said the gentleman in a tone that might have meant amusement or disappointment, or maybe both. “Got an important engagement, I suppose?”
Billy did not understand the words, and he did not like the tone. “You see,” he began again, and stopped helplessly. He had promised the beautiful lady to keep the “garden days” a secret. He thought for a moment. “But I could come with you in the afternoon,” he said kindly and eagerly.
The gentleman laughed, and somehow Billy laughed also, though he didn't know why.
“Well,” said the man, “I don't often go out in the afternoon, but we might manage to have an hour to-morrow, from three till four. Only you're not to tell—oh, well, never mind about that. Be ready at three.”
“Yes, sir—yes— Please, what is your name?”
“My name, little chap, is Henry Denver.”
Billy gravely nodded. “Yes, Henry Denver; I'll be ready at three, 'cause I like you awful.”
“My dear little chap!”
They passed the gates; the car stopped. Sir Henry got out and lifted Billy to the steps. Billy promptly kissed him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. Sir Henry turned away quickly and examined a back tire.
“No,” he said to the chauffeur presently, “it's all right.” He got in and waved his hand. “Good-by, Billy.”
“Good-by, Henry Denver,” cried the boy cheerfully.
The lodge-keeper paused in closing one of the gates, and gaped at his nephew. But no words came, and he completed his business a dazed man.
“Let be!” said his wife, when he told his tale. “It near killed her when her own boy came, and near killed them both when he went.”
Such was the first of Billy's motor-rides.
“Billy,” said Sir Henry one day, “why can't you always come when I ask you?”
Billy wriggled uncomfortably.
“Rather not say?”
Billy nodded, and squeezed the strong arm. He would have liked to explain that he never mentioned his rides to the beautiful lady.
Sir Henry nodded also. “I respect your reasons, whatever they may be, for secrecy, old man.” He knew the wife of his lodge-keeper to be a woman of fixed ideas; doubtless she had duties for the boy to perform on certain days. He was not going to interfere—just yet.
“You called it a 'portantin 'gagement,” said Billy.
“Did I? Well, Billy, it's for both of us to remember that gentlemen do not inquire into each other's 'portant engagements.”
[Illustration: “OLD CHAP,” SAID SIR HENRY, “HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE WITH US ALWAYS?” BILLY LOOKED FROM TO THE OTHER AS IF AMAZED AT THE QUESTION. “OF COURSE I'M GOING TO LIVE WITH YOU ALWAYS”]
Which remark was Greek to Billy, though he liked the voice that made it.
“But I could come with you day after to-morrow, Henry Denver,” he said graciously.
III
In the summer house Lady Denver looked at the watch on her wrist for the fifth time. Ten minutes to twelve. She rose and laid aside the latest number of Chatterbox, the pages of which she had been turning idly for the last fifteen minutes. She gave a straightening touch to a snowy napkin covering a dish of fruit and another of sweet biscuits on the small round table, glanced at an open locker containing battledores and shuttlecocks, a bow with arrows and a folding target, a little gun, a box of alphabet bricks, and other toys, and stepped out into the sunshine. She walked slowly around the center bed of the garden. The “white lilies” had gone, but other white flowers had been given their place. In a little while she halted and stood watching the iron gate. Presently she went down to the gate. She tried the handle to make sure that she had turned the key an hour earlier. Of course it opened. But even had it been locked, Billy would not have gone away without calling her, and she had been listening during her brief stay in the summer house. No; Billy had not come, and—it looked as though he were not coming.
She leaned against the gate, her eyes on the path into the wood. It was the first time he had failed to come at the hour appointed; frequently he had been waiting at the gate for her—the gate which before his first coming she had thought never to open again. Even now it cost her a pang to open it, but a dear sense of solace followed the pang. For it was like opening her heart to gladness, though sadness held the chief chamber and would do so always.
The wood and the path became blurred to her eyes. Why had the little boy not come? Perhaps he had grown tired of her; perhaps he had found a new friend, a boy friend, to play with. And yet he had clung to her at their parting yesterday. Even yet she felt the clutch of the small hands, the contact of the lithe young body. Oh, God! Was even the second best and loveliest thing in her woman's world to be taken from her? Perhaps something had happened to Billy! At the thought her eyes became clear, her relaxed muscles stiffened. She must go at once to the lodge, and—
She turned quickly. The door in the opposite wall had opened and closed, and her husband was coming down the garden. She leaned back against the gate. Her husband had not entered her garden for nearly two years—not since that September day when he and she and another had played together on the center plot, then grass. For while women cling to sorrowful associations men seek to avoid them.
She perceived that he looked uneasily from one side to the other. Had he discovered her secret, she wondered, the only secret she had had from him in their eight years of married life? And if so, what would he think of her? With all his gentleness and tenderness, might he not feel harshly about this thing she had done? As he caught sight of her, she succeeded in forcing a smile to her lips, but for the life of her she could not leave the gate and go to meet him.
He smiled also, but not naturally. There was a look on his face that she had not observed for nearly two years, a look of anxiety tinged with excitement—almost the look that doctors know on the faces of men about to be fathers or in danger of losing their fatherhood. Sadness and loving solicitude—these had been the expressions of her husband's face most familiar to her during that period. But this look— Suddenly she became calm. Whatever Harry had to say to her, it could be nothing that would hurt. Indeed, as he drew nearer, it seemed to her that he had come to ask a favor.
“Lydia,” he said—he examined the end of a cigar which had gone out some time ago, then raised his eyes to hers—“Lydia, you must wonder at seeing me here, but I—I had to come. There is—possibly you know—a little boy staying at the lodge at present. Martin is his uncle. This morning he was climbing a tree behind the lodge”—Lady Denver gave a gasp—“when he fell. His left arm was rather badly broken. I brought the doctor in the car. He is now with the boy—had put him right just before I left. Have I frightened you, Lydia?”
“No, no—just a little. Go on, Harry.”
“Well, the fact is, there isn't much accommodation and convenience and so on at the lodge for such a case, and I wondered if we couldn't have him removed to—”
“Not the hospital, Harry, not the hospital.”
“No, dear, to the house. Would you mind? Er—could you stand it? He's a nice little chap. I've taken him in the car once or twice—perhaps oftener—and he's—er—all right. His parents are dead. His mother was a sister of Martin's, who might have been a great singer, and—er—his father, I've learned, was born a gentleman, though— But do you think we could manage it, Lydia?” He laid his hand on her arm. “It must be just as you wish,” he added.
There was a silence. Then she caught his hand. “Come with me for a minute,” she said faintly, and led him to the summer house. “Look,” she whispered. “These belong to the little boy you speak of, Harry. All summer he has been coming here nearly every morning. The first time I saw him he was lying at the gate, crying for his—mother. Oh, Harry, I couldn't help it. I wanted to tell you, but somehow I couldn't. I feared you might think I had forgotten our own little boy, our Freddie; or that I was not content in my life with you. Oh, I didn't know what you would think at all. And Billy just seemed to take possession. He didn't take—another's place, Harry—you know that, don't you?—but just a little place of his own.”
Denver's arm went around his wife. His eyes were wet. “I know, I know,” he said softly. “The little chap did the same to me—and I couldn't tell you, Lydia. He and I know each other so well that he calls me Henry Denver, and sometimes—er—he hugs me.”
“Oh, my dear, I'm glad,” she murmured. “It doesn't make us love Freddie or each other the less, does it?”
Denver cleared his throat. “”I asked the doctor to wait,” he said. “Will you come with me, Lydia?” A little later they took the path through the wood.
Billy lay at the window of a beautiful room overlooking the gardens, and the beautiful lady sat beside him.
“Doctor Stark says you may get up for a little while to-morrow,” the beautiful lady was saying, “and next week we are all going to Barradale.”
“Where is Barradale?”
“Away in the north. We always go there in the autumn, you know. At least nearly always.”
“Have you got a house there, too?”
“Yes, Billy.”
Billy lay quiet a while, marveling at the possession of two houses. “Where is Henry Denver?” he asked suddenly. “He said he would come back soon.”
“So he will, dearie. Ah! I see him coming now.”
Billy looked out the window and waved his free hand. “He's looking happy,” he remarked.
“Are you sure, Billy?” The beautiful lady's voice was eager. She rose and went to the window.
“It's all right,” called her husband.
The beautiful lady bent over Billy and kissed him. “My dear, dear little boy,” she whispered.
“What, mother?”
Sir Henry entered quickly. “I've fixed it,” he said to his wife in an undertone; “but I was sorry for the Martins. I hadn't imagined the woman had much in the way of feelings. Poor soul, I left her scrubbing the kitchen table, in tears.”
He turned to the boy. “Old chap,” he said briskly, yet anxiously, “how would you like to live with us always?”
“Yes, Billy dear,” softly added the beautiful lady, “how would you like to live with us always?” Her hand trembled.
Billy looked from one to the other, as if amazed at the question. “Of course I'm goin' to live with you always!”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1934, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 89 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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