The very small person

THE

VERY SMALL
PERSON

ANNIE 1

HAMILTON

DONNELL

THAT IS WHERE WE PLAY 1 MEAN IT IS MOST PLEASANT

THERE'"

THE

VERY SMALL PERSON

BY

ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL

AUTHOR OF " REBECCA MARY"

ILLUSTRATED BY

ELIZABETH SHIPPEN GREEN

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

MCMVI

Copyright, 1901, 1902, 1903, 1906, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
Copyright, 1903, 1905, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co.

All rights rturvtd.

Published October, 1906.

Contents

CHAP. PAGE

I. LITTLE BLUE OVERALLS 3

II. THE BOY 21

III. THE ADOPTED 35

IV. BOBBY UNWELCOME 57

V. THE LITTLE GIRL WHO SHOULD HAVE

BEEN A BOY 69

VI. THE LIE 83

VII. THE PRINCESS OF MAKE-BELIEVE ... 97

VIII. THE PROMISE 109

IX. THE LITTLE LOVER 133

X. THE CHILD 153

XI. THE RECOMPENSE 173

Illustrations

THAT IS WHERE WE PLAY 1 MEAN IT IS

MOST PLEASANT THERE ' " Frontispiece

"LITTLE BLUE OVERALLS CLIMBED INTO A

CHAIR" Facing p. 6

""FORE I'D LEAN MY CHIN ON FOLKS'S

GATES AND WATCH 'EM!'" " 36

"SHE STAYED THERE A WEEK A MONTH

A YEAR" 44

"IT WAS WORSE THAN CREEPY, CREAKY

NOISES" 84

"'i CAN'T PLAY . . . I'M BEING GOOD'" . "112

"MURRAY HAD . . . SEEN THE VISION, TOO " " 116

ELIZABETH " l6o

CHAPTER I

Little Blue Overalls

Little Blue Overalls

JISS SALOME'S face was
gently frowning as she wrote.
"DEAR JOHN," the letter
began, — " It's all very well
except one thing. I wonder
you didn't think of that.
I'm thinking of it most of the time, and it
takes away so much of the pleasure of the
rose-garden and the raspberry-bushes! Anne
is in raptures over the raspberry-bushes.

"Yes, the raspberries and the roses are
all right. And I like the stone - wall with
the woodbine over it. (Good boy, you re-
membered that, didn't you?) And the ap-
ple-tree and the horse-chestnut and the elm
— of course I like them.

"The house is just big enough and just

The Very Small Person

small enough, and there's a trunk - closet,
as I stipulated. And Anne's room has a
'southern exposure' — Anne's crazy spot is
southern exposures. Mine's it. Dear, dear,
John, how could you forget it I That every-
thing else — closets and stone-walls and ex-
posures— should be to my mind but that!
Well, I am thinking of moving out, before
I move in. But I haven't told Anne. Anne
is the kind of person not to tell, until the last
moment. It saves one's nerves — heigh-ho!
I thought I was coming here to get away
from nerves! I was so satisfied. I really
meant to thank you, John, until I discovered
— it. Oh yes, I know — Elizabeth is looking
over your shoulder, and you two are saying
something that is unfit for publication about
old maids! My children, then thank the
Lord you aren't either of you old maids.
Make the most of it."

Miss Salome let her pen slip to the bare
floor and gazed before her wistfully. The
room was in the dreary early stages of un-
packing, but it was not of that Miss Salome
was thinking. Her eyes were gazing out
4

Little Blue Overalls

of the window at a thin gray trail of smoke
against the blue ground of the sky. She
could see the little house, too, brown and
tiny and a little battered. She could see
the clothes-line, and count easily enough the
pairs of little stockings on it. She caught
up the pen again fiercely.

"There are eight," she wrote. "Allow-
ing two legs to a child, doesn't that make
four ? John Dearborn, you have bought me
a house next door to four children! I think
I shall begin to put the books back to-night.
As ill luck will have it, they are all unpacked.

"I have said nothing to Anne; Anne has
said nothing to me. But we both know.
She has counted the stockings too. We
are both old maids. No, I have not seen
them yet — anything but their stockings on
the clothes-line. But the mother is not a
washer-woman — there is no hope. I don't
know how I know she isn't a washer-wom-
an, but I do. It is impressed upon me. So
there are four children, to say nothing of the
Lord knows how many babies still in socks!
I cannot forgive you, John."
5

The Very Small Person

Miss Salome had been abroad for many
years. Stricken suddenly with homesick-
ness, she and her ancient serving-woman,
Anne, had fled across seas to their native
land. Miss Salome had first commissioned
John, long-suffering John, — adviser, busi-
ness-manager, brother, — to find her a snug
little home with specified adjuncts of trunk-
closets, elm, apple, and horse-chestnut trees,
woodbiney stone -walls — and a "southern
exposure" for Anne. John had done his
best. But how could he have forgotten,
and Elizabeth have forgotten, and Miss
Salome herself have forgotten — it? Every
one knew Miss Salome's distaste for little
children. Anne's too, though Anne was
more taciturn than her mistress.

"Hullo!"

Miss Salome started. In the doorway stood
a very small person in blue jeans overalls.

" Hullo! I want your money or your life!
I'm a 'wayman."

"A — what?" Miss Salome managed to
ejaculate. The Little Blue Overalls ad-
vanced a few feet into the room.
6

Little Blue Overalls

"Robber, you know; — you know what
robbers are, don't you? I'm one. You
needn't call me a highwayman, I'm so — so
low. Just 'wayman '11 do. Why, gracious!
you ain't afraid, are you? You needn't be,
— I won't hurt you!" and a sweet- toned, de-
lighted little laugh echoed through the bare
room. "You needn't give me your money
or your life. Never mind. I'll 'scuse you."

Miss Salome uttered no word at all. Of
course this boy belonged in a pair of those
stockings over there. It was no more than
was to be expected.

" It's me. I'm not a 'wayman any more,
— just me. I heard you'd come, so I thought
I'd come an' see you. You glad? Why
don't you ask me will I take a seat?"

"Will I — will you take a seat?" repeated
Miss Salome, as if she were saying a lesson.
The Little Blue Overalls climbed into a
chair.

"Looks pretty bad here, doesn't it? I
guess you forgot to sweep," he said, assum-
ing social curves in his plump little body.
He had the air of having come to stay. Miss
7

The Very Small Person

Salome's lips, under orders to tighten, found
themselves unexpectedly relaxing into a
smile. The Little Blue Overalls was amusing.

"We've got a sofy, an' a rockin'-chair.
The sofy's new, but Chessie's broke a hole
in it."

"Are there four of you?" Miss Salome
asked, abruptly. It was the Little Blue
Overalls' turn to start now.

"Me? — gracious! four o' me? I guess
you're out o' your head, aren't — Oh, you
mean child'en! Well, there's five, 'thout
countin' the spandy new one — she's too
little to count."

Five — six, with the spandy new one!
Miss Salome's gaze wandered from the piles
of books on the floor to the empty packing-
boxes, as if trying to find the shortest dis-
tance.

"There are only four pairs on the line,"
she murmured, weakly, — "stockings," she
added. The Little Blue Overalls nodded
comprehendingly.

" I don't wear 'em summers, — I guess you
didn't notice I was in my bare feet, did you?
8

Little Blue Overalls

Well, I am. It's a savin'. The rest are
nothing but girls — I'm all the boy we've got.
Boys are tough. But I don't suppose you
ever was one, so you don't know?" There
was an upward inflection to the voice of the
Little Blue Overalls. An answer seemed ex-
pected.

"No — no, I never was one," Miss Salome
said, hastily. She could hear Anne's plod-
ding steps in the hall. It would be em-
barrassing to have Anne come in now. But
the footsteps plodded by. After more con-
versation on a surprising number of topics,
the Little Blue Overalls climbed out of the
chair.

"I've had a 'joyable time, an' I'll be
pleased to come again, thank you," he said,
with cheerful politeness. "I'm glad you've
come, — I like you, but I hope you'll sweep
your floor." He retreated a few steps, then
faced about again and advanced into the
enemy's near neighborhood. He was hold-
ing out a very small, brown, unwashed hand.
"I forgot 'bout shakin' hands," he smiled.
" Le's. I hope you like me, too, an' I guess
9

The Very Small Person

you do, don't you? Everybody does. No-
body ever didn't like me in my life, an' I'm
seven. Good-bye."

Miss Salome heard him patter down the
hall, and she half thought — she was not sure
— -that at the kitchen door he stopped. Half
an hour afterwards she saw a very small per-
son crossing the rose-garden. If there was
something in his hands that he was eating,
Miss Salome never asked Anne about it. It
was not her way to ask Anne questions. It
was not Anne's way to ask her. The letter
to John was finished, oddly enough, without
further mention of — it. Miss Salome got the
broom and swept the bare big room care-
fully. She hummed a little as she worked.
Out in the kitchen Anne was humming too.

"It is a pleasant little place, especially
the stone -wall and the woodbine," Miss
Salome was thinking; "I'm glad I speci-
fied woodbine and stone-walls. John would
never have thought. So many other things
are pleasant, too; but, dear, dear, it is very
unfortunate about that one thing!" Still
Miss Salome hummed, and after tea she got

10

Little Blue Overalls

Anne to help her move out the empty pack-
ing-boxes.

The next day the Little Blue Overalls came
again. This time he was a peddler, with
horse-chestnut "apples" to sell, and rose-
petal pies. He said they were bargains.

" You can truly eat the pies," he remarked.
"There's a little sugar in 'em. I saved it off
the top o' her bun," indicating Anne's locality
with a jerk of his little cropped head. So it
was a fact, was it? He had been eating
something when he crossed the rose-garden ?
Miss Salome wondered at Anne.

The next day, and the next, — every day
the Little Blue Overalls came, always in a
new character. Miss Salome found herself
watching for him. She could catch the
little blue glint of very small overalls as soon
as they got to the far side of the rose-garden.
But for Anne, at the end of the first week
she would have gone out to meet him. Dear,
dear, but for Miss Salome, Anne would have
gone !

The Little Blue Overalls confided his
troubles to Miss Salome. He told her
ii

The Very Small Person

how hard it was to be the only boy, —
how impossible, of course, it was to play
girly plays, and how he had longed to find
a congenial spirit. Mysteriously enough, he
appeared confident that he had found the
congenial spirit at last. Miss Salome's petti-
coats seemed no obstacle. He showed her
his pocketful of treasures. He taught her
to whittle, and how to bear it when she
"bleeded." He taught her to whistle —
very softly, on account of Anne. (He taught
Anne, too — softly, on account of Miss Sa-
lome.) He let her make sails for his boats,
and sew on his buttons, — those that Anne
didn't sew on.

"Dear John," wrote Miss Salome, "the
raspberries are ripe. When you were a very
small person — say seven — did you ever mash
them between raspberry leaves, with 'sugar
in, ' and call them pies, — and eat them ?
They are really palatable. Of course it is a
little risky on account of possible bugs. I
don't remember that you were a remarkable
little boy. Were you? Did you ever play
you were a highwayman, or an elephant, or

12

Little Blue Overalls

anything of that sort? Queer I can't re-
member.

"Anne is delighted with her southern
exposure, but she has never said so. That
is why I know she is. I am delighted with
the roses and the closets and the horse-
chestnut — especially the horse - chestnut.
That is where we play — I mean it is most
pleasant there, hot afternoons. Did you use
to dote on horse-chestnuts? Queer boys
should. But I rather like them myself, in a
way, — out of the way! We have picked up
a hundred and seventeen." Miss Salome
dropped into the plural number innocently,
and Elizabeth laughed over John's shoulder.
Elizabeth did the reading between the lines.
John was only a man.

One day Little Blue Overalls was late.
He came from the direction of the stable
that adjoined Miss Salome's house. He was
excited and breathless. A fur rug was
draped around his shoulders and trailed un-
comfortably behind him.

"Come on!" he cried, eagerly. "It's a
circus! I'm the grizzled bear. There's a
13

The Very Small Person

four-legged girl — Chessie, you know, with
stockin's on her hands, — and a Manx rooster
('thout any tail), and, oh, my! the splendid-
est livin' skeleton you ever saw! I want you
to be man'ger — come on! It's easy enough.
You poke us with a stick, an' we perform. I
dance, an' the four -legged girl walks, an'
the rooster crows, an' the skeleton skel —
Oh, well, you needn't poke the skeleton."

The Little Blue Overalls paused for breath.
Miss Salome laid aside her work. Where
was Anne ? — but the stable could be reached
without passing the kitchen windows. Sat-
urdays Anne was very busy, anyway.

"I'm ready," laughed Miss Salome. She
had never been a circus-manager, but she
could learn. It was easier than whittling.
Together they hurried away to the stable.
At the door Miss Salome came to an abrupt
stop. An astonished exclamation escaped her.

The living skeleton sat on an empty barrel,
lean and grave and patient. The living
skeleton also uttered an exclamation. She
and the circus-manager gazed at each other
in a remarkable way, as if under a spell.
14

Little Blue Overalls

"Come on!" shouted the grizzled bear.

After that, Miss Salome and Anne were
not so reserved. What was the use? And
it was much easier, after all, to be found
out. Things ran along smoothly and pleas-
antly after that.

Late in the autumn, Elizabeth, looking
over John's shoulder one day, laughed, then
cried out, sharply. "Oh!" she said; "oh, I
am sorry!" And John echoed her an instant
later.

"Dear John," the letter said, "when you
were little were you ever very sick, and did
you die ? Oh, I see, but don't laugh. I
think I am a little out of my head to-day.
One is when one is anxious. And Little
Blue Overalls is very sick. I found Anne
crying a little while ago, and just now she
came in and found me. She didn't mind;
I don't.

"He did not come yesterday or the day
before. Yesterday I went to see why. Anne
was just coming away from the door. 'He's
sick,' she said, in her crisp, sharp way, — you
know it, John, — but she was white in the
15

The Very Small Person

face. The little mother came to the door.
Queer I had never seen her before, — Little
Blue Overalls has her blue eyes.

"There were two or three small persons
clinging to her, and the very smallest one
I ever saw was in her arms. She looked
fright — " The letter broke off abruptly
here. Another slip was enclosed that began
as abruptly. "Anne says it is scarlet-fever.
The doctor has been there just now. I am
going to have him brought over here — you
know I don't mean the doctor. And you
would not smile, either of you — not Eliza-
beth, anyway, for she will think of her own
babies — "

"Yes, yes," Elizabeth cried, "I am think-
ing!"

" — That is why he must not stay over
there. There are so many babies. I am
going over there now."

The letter that followed this one was a
week delayed.

"Dear John," it said, — "you must be
looking out for another place. If anything
should — he is very sick, John! And I could
16

Little Blue Overalls

not stay here without him. Nor Anne.
John, would you ever think that Anne was
born a nurse? Well, the Lord made her
one. I have found it out. Not with a little
dainty white cap on, and a nurse's apron,—
not that kind, but with light, cool fingers
and a great, tender heart. That is the Lord's
kind, and it's Anne. She is taking beautiful
care of our Little Blue Overalls. The little
mother and I appreciate Anne. But he is
very very sick, John.

"I could not stay here. Why, there isn't
a spot that wouldn't remind me! There's a
faint little path worn in the grass beside
the stone-wall where he has been 'sentry.'
There's a bare spot under the horse-chest-
nut where he played blacksmith and ' shoe-ed '
the saw-horse. And he used to pounce out
on me from behind the old elm and demand
my money or my life, — he was a highwayman
the first time I saw him. I've bought rose-
pies and horse-chestnut apples of him on the
front door-steps. We've played circus in
the barn. We've been Indians and gypsies
and Rough Riders all over the place. You

The Very Small Person

must look round for another one, John. I
can't stay here.

"Here's Anne. She says he is asleep now.
Before he went he sent word to me that he
was a wounded soldier, and he wished I'd
make a red cross and sew it on Anne's sleeve.
I must go and make it. Good-bye. The
letter will not smell good because I shall
fumigate it, on account of Elizabeth's babies.
You need not be afraid."

There was no letter at all the next week,
early or late, and they were afraid Little Blue
Overalls was dead. Elizabeth hugged her
babies close and cried softly over their little,
bright heads. Then shortly afterwards the
telegram came, and she laughed — and cried
— over that. It was as welcome as it was
guiltless of punctuation:

"Thank the Lord John Little Blue Over-
alls is going to get well."

CHAPTER II

The Boy

The Boy

IHE trail of the Boy was al-
ways entirely distinct, but
on this especial morning it
lay over house, porch, barn
— everything. The Mother
followed it up, stooping to
gather the miscellany of boyish belongings
into her apron. She had a delightful scheme
in her mind for clearing everything up. She
wanted to see how it would seem, for once,
not to have any litter of whittlings, of strings
and marbles and tops! No litter of beloved
birds' eggs, snake -skins, turtle-shells! No
trail of the Boy anywhere.

It had taken the whole family to get the
Boy off, but now he was gone. Even yet
the haze of dust the stage-coach had stirred

21

The Very Small Person

up from the dry roadway lingered like a faint
blur on the landscape. It could not be ten
minutes since they had bidden the Boy his
first good-bye. The Mother smiled softly.

"But I did it!" she murmured. "Of
course, — I had to. The idea of letting your
Boy go off without kissing him good-bye!
Mary," she suddenly spoke aloud, addressing
the Patient Aunt, who was following the trail
too, picking up the sif tings from the other's
apron — "Mary, did you kiss him? There
was really no need, you know, because you
are not his mother. And it would have
saved his feelings not to."

The Patient Aunt laughed. She was very
young and pretty, and the "patient" in her
name had to do only with her manner of
bearing the Boy.

"No, I didn't," she said. "I didn't dare
to, after I saw him wipe yours off!"

"Mary!"

"With the back of his hand. I am not
near-sighted. Now why should a well-mean-
ing little kiss distress a Boy like that?
That's what I want to know."

22

The Boy

"It didn't once," sighed the Mother,
gently. "Not when he was a baby. I'm
glad I got in a great many of them then,
while I had a chance. It was the trousers
that did it, Mary. From the minute he put
on trousers he objected to being kissed. I
put his kilts on again one day, and he let
me kiss him."

"But it was a bribe to get you to take them
off," laughed the Patient Aunt, wickedly.
"I remember; — I was there. And you took
them off to pay for that kiss. You can't
deny it, Bess."

"Yes, I took them off — and after that I
kissed them. It was next best. Mary, does
it seem very awful quiet here to you?"

"Awful. I never heard anything like it in
my life. I'm going to let something drop
and make a noise." She dropped a tin
trumpet, but it fell on the thick rug, and
they scarcely heard it.

The front gate clicked softly, and the
Father came striding up the walk, whistling
exaggeratedly. He had ridden down to the
corner with the Boy.

23

The Very Small Person

"Well, well, well," he said; "now I shall
go to work. I'm going up to my den, girls,
and I don't want to be called away for any-
thing or anybody lower than a President or
the minister. This is my first good chance
to work for ten years."

Which showed how old the Boy was. He
was rather young to go off alone on a journey,
but a neighbor half a mile down the glary
white road was going his way, and would
take him in charge. The neighbor was lame,
and the Boy thought he was going to take
charge of the neighbor. It was as well.
Nobody had undeceived him.

In a little over half an hour — three-quar-
ters at most — the trail of the Boy was wiped
out. Then the Patient Aunt and the Mother
sat down peacefully and undisturbed to their
sewing. Everything was very spruce and
cleared up. The Mother was thinking of
that, and of how very, very still it was. She
wished the Patient Aunt would begin to sing,
or a door would slam somewhere.

"Dear me!" she thought, with a tremu-
lous little smile, "here I am wanting to hear
24

The Boy

a door slam already! Any one wouldn't
think I'd had a special set of door nerves for
years!" She started in to rock briskly.
There used to be a board that creaked by
the west window. Why didn't it creak now ?
The Mother tried to make it.

"Mary," she cried, suddenly and sharply
— "Mary!"

"Mercy! Well, what is it, my dear? Is
the house afire, or anything?"

"Why don't you talk, and not sit there as
still as a post? You haven't said a word
for half an hour."

"Why, so I haven't, — or you either, for
that matter. I thought we were sitting here
enjoying the calm. Doesn't it look too
lovely and fixed - up for anything, Bess ?
Seems like Sunday. Don't you wish some-
body would call before we get stirred up
again."

"There's time enough. We sha'n't get
stirred up again for a week," sighed the
Mother. She seemed suddenly to remem-
ber, as a new thing, that weeks held seven
days apiece; days, twenty-four hours. The
25

The Very Small Person

little old table at school repeated itself to her
mind. Then she remembered how the Boy
said it. She saw him toeing the stripe in
the carpet before her; she heard his high
sweet sing-song:

"Sixty sec-unds make a min-it. Sixty
min-its make a nour. Sixty hours make —
no ; I mean twenty - four hours — make a
d-a-a-y."

That was the way the Boy said it — God
bless the Boy! The Mother got up abruptly.

" I think I will go up and call on William,"
she said, unsteadily. The Patient Aunt
nodded gravely. "But he doesn't like to
be interrupted, you know," she reminded,
thinking of the Boy's interruptions.

Up -stairs the Father said "Come in,"
with remarkable alacrity. He looked up
from his manuscripts and welcomed her.
The sheets, tossed untidily about the table
were mostly blank ones.

"Well, dear?" the little Mother said, with
a question in her voice.

"Not at all; — bad," he answered, gloom-
ily. "I haven't written a word yet, Bess.
26

The Boy

At this rate, how soon will my new book be
out? It's so confoundedly still—

"Yes, dear, I know," the Mother said,
hastily. Then they both gazed out of the
window, and saw the Boy's little, rough-
coated, ugly dog moping under the Boy's
best -beloved tree. The Boy had pleaded
hard to be allowed to take the dog on the
journey. They both remembered that now.

"He's lonesome," murmured the Mother,
but she meant that they two were. And
they had thought it would be such a rest
and relief! But then, you remember, the
Boy had never been away before, and he
was only ten.

So one day and one more after it dragged
by. Two from seven leaves five. The
Mother secretly despaired. The second night,
after the others were asleep, she stole around
the house and strewed the Boy's things
about in all the rooms; but she could not
make them look at ease. Nevertheless, she
let them lie, and, oddly enough, no one
appeared to see them next morning. All
the family made fine pretence of being
27

The Very Small Person

cheerful, and spoke often of the quietude
and peace — how restful it was; how they
had known beforehand that it would be so,
without the whooping, whistling, tramping,
slamming Boy.

"So relieving to the nerves," the Patient
Aunt said.

' ' So soothing, ' ' murmured the Mother, sadly.

"So confoundedly nice and still!" the
Father muttered in his beard. "Haven't
had such a chance to work for ten years."
But he did not work. The third day he
said he must take a little run to the city
to — to see his publishers, you know. There
were things that needed looking after; — if
the Mother would toss a few things into his
grip, he'd be off; — back in a few days, of
course. And so he went. It was a relief to
the Mother, and a still further one when, on
the fourth day, the Patient Aunt went away
on a little visit to — to some friends.

"I'm glad they're gone," nodded the little

Mother, decisively, "for I couldn't have

stood it another day — not another day ! Now

I'm going away myself. I suppose I should

28

The Boy

have gone anyway, but it's much pleasanter
not to have them know. They would both
of them have laughed. What do they know
about being a Mother and having your little
Boy away ? Oh yes, they can laugh and be
relieved — and rested — and soothed! It's
mothers whose hearts break with lonesome-
ness — mothers and ugly little dogs." She
took the moping little beast up in her lap
and stroked his rough coat.

' ' You shall go too, ' ' she whispered. ' ' You
can't wait three days more, either, can you ?
It would have killed you, too, wouldn't it?
We are glad those other people went away,
aren't we? Now we'll go to the Boy."

Early the next morning they went. The
Mother thought she had never been so happy
before in her life, and the ugly little beast
yelped with anticipative joy. In a little — a
very little — while, now, they would hear the
Boy shout — see him caper — feel his hard
little palms on their faces. They would see
the trail of the Boy over everything; not a
make-believe, made-up trail, but the real,
littered, Boy thing.

29

The Very Small Person

"I hope those other two people are enjoy-
ing their trips. We are, aren't we?" cried
the happy Mother, hugging the little ugly
dog in her arms. "And they won't know;
— they can't laugh at us. We'll never let
them know we couldn't bear it another
minute, will we? The Boy sha'n't tell on
us."

The place where the Boy was visiting was
quite a long way from the railroad station,
but they trudged to it gayly, jubilantly.
While yet a good way off they heard the
Boy and came upon his trail. The little dog
nearly went into fits with frantic joy at the
cap he found in the path, but the Mother
went straight on to meet the little shouting
voice in her ears. Half-way to it she saw
the Boy. But wait. Who was that with
him? And that other one, laughing in his
beard? If there had been time to be sur-
prised— but she only brushed them both
aside and caught up the Boy. The Boy —
the Boy — the Boy again ! She kissed him all
over his freckled, round little face. She
kissed his hair and his hands and his knees.
30

The Boy

"Look out; he's wiping them off!" laugh-
ed the Patient Aunt. " But you see he didn't
wipe mine off."

" You didn't kiss me. You darsn't. You
ain't my mother," panted the Boy, between
the kisses. He could not keep up with them
with the back of his brown little hand.

"But I am, dear. I'm your mother,"
cooed the Mother, proud of herself.

After a while she let him go because she
pitied him. Then she stood up, stern and
straight, and demanded things of these other
two.

"How came you here, Mary? I thought
you were going on a visit. Is this the way
you see your publishers, William?"

"I — I couldn't wait," murmured the Impa-
tient Aunt. "I wanted to hear him shout.
You know how that is, Bess." But there
was no apology in the Father's tone. He
put out his hand and caught the Boy as he
darted past, and squared him about, with
his sturdy little front to his mother. The
Father was smiling in a tender way.

"He is my publisher," he said. "I would
31

The Very Small Person

rather he published my best works than any
one else. He will pay the highest royalty."

And the Mother, when she slipped across
to them, kissed not the Boy alone, but them
both.

The next day they took the Boy back in
triumph, the three of them and the little
dog, and after that there was litter and noise
and joy as of old.

CHAPTER III

The Adopted

The Adopted

[HE Enemy's chin just reach-
ed comfortably to the top
fence-rail, and there it rest-
ed, while above it peered a
pair of round blue eyes. It
is not usual for an enemy's
eyes to be so round and blue, nor an enemy's
chin to reach so short a distance from the
ground.

"She's watching me," Margaret thought;
"she wants to see if I've got far as she has.
'Fore I'd lean my chin on folks's gates and
watch 'em!"

"She knows I'm here," reflected the
Enemy, "just as well as anything. 'Fore
I'd peek at people out o' the ends o' my
eyes!"
4 35

The Very Small Person

Between the two, a little higher than
their heads, tilted a motherly bird on a
syringa twig.

"Ter-wit, ter-wee, — pit-ee, pit-ee!" she
twittered under her breath. And it did seem
a pity to be quarrellers on a day in May, with
the apple buds turning as pink as pink!

"I sha'n't ever tell her any more secrets,"
Margaret mused, rather sadly, for there was
that beautiful new one aching to be told.

"I sha'n't ever skip with her again," the
Enemy's musings ran drearily, and the arm
she had always put round Margaret when
they skipped felt lonesome and — and empty.
And there was that lovely new level place to
skip in!

' ' Pit-ee ! Pit-ee ! ' ' sang softly the motherly
bird.

It had only been going on a week of seven
days. It was exactly a week ago to-day it
began, while they were making the birthday
presents together, Margaret sitting in this
very chair and Nell — the Enemy — sitting
on the toppest door-step. Who wTould have
thought it was coming ? There was nothing
36

KORE 1 D LEAN MY CHIN ON FOLKS S GATES AND WATCH
'EM'' "

The Adopted

to warn — no thunder in the sky, no little
mother-bird on the syringa bush. It just
came — oh, hum!

"I'm ahead!" the Enemy had suddenly
announced, waving her book - mark. She
had got to the "h" in her Mother, and Mar-
garet was only finishing her capital "M."
They were both working ' ' Honor thy Mother
that thy days may be long," on strips of card-
board for their mothers' birthdays, which,
oddly enough, came very close together. Of
course that wasn't exactly the way it was in
the Bible, but they had agreed it was better
to leave "thy Father" out because it wasn't
his birthday, and they had left out "the
land which the Lord thy God giveth" be-
cause there wasn't room for it on the card-
board.

"I'm ahead!"

"That's because I'm doing mine the care-
fulest," Margaret had retorted, promptly.
"There aren't near so many hunchy places
in mine."

"Well, I don't care; my mother's the best-
looking, if her book-mark isn't!" in triumph.
37

The Very Small Person

"Her hair curls, and she doesn't have to
wear glasses."

Margaret's wrath had flamed up hotly.
Mother's eyes were so shiny and tender be-
hind the glasses, and her smooth brown hair
was so soft! The love in Margaret's soul
arose and took up arms for Mother.

"I love mine the best, so there! — so there!
— so there!" she cried. But side by side
with the love in her soul was the secret con-
sciousness of how very much the Enemy
loved her mother, too. Now, sitting sewing
all alone, with the Enemy on the other side
of the fence, Margaret knew she had not
spoken truly then, but the rankling taunt of
the curls that Mother hadn't, and the glasses
that she had, justified her to herself. She
would never, never take it back, so there! —
so there! — so there!

"She's only got to the end o' her 'days,' —
I can see clear from here," soliloquized the
Enemy, with awakening exultation. For the
Enemy's "days" were "long," — she had fin-
ished her book-mark. The longing to shout
it out — "I've got mine done!" — was so in-
38

The Adopted

tense within her that her chin lost its bal-
ance on the fence-rail and she jarred down
heavily on her heels. So close related are
mind and matter.

Margaret resorted to philosophic contem-
plation to shut out the memory of the silent
on-looker at the fence. She had swung about
discourteously "back to" her. "I guess,"
contemplated Margaret, "my days '11 be long
enough in the land! I guess so, for I honor
my mother enough to live forever! That
makes me think — I guess I better go in and
kiss her good -night for to-night when she
won't be at home."

It was mid-May and school was nearly
over. The long summer vacation stretched
endlessly, lonesomely, ahead of Margaret.
Last summer it had been so different. A
summer vacation with a friend right close
to you all the time, skipping with you and
keeping house with you and telling all her
secrets to you, is about as far away as — as
China is from an Enemy 'cross the fence!
Oh, hum! some vacations are so splendid
and some are so un-splendid!
39

The Very Small Person

It did not seem possible that anything
drearier than this could happen. Margaret
would not have dreamed it possible. But a
little way farther down Lonesome Road
waited something a great deal worse. It
was waiting for Margaret behind the school-
house stone - wall. The very next day it
jumped out upon her.

Usually at recess Nell — the Enemy — and
Margaret had gone wandering away together
with their arms around each other's waist,
as happy as anything. But for a week of
recesses now they had gone wandering in
opposite directions — the Enemy marching
due east, Margaret due west. The stone-wall
stretched away to the west. She had found
a nice lonesome little place to huddle in,
behind the wall, out of sight. It was just
the place to be miserable in.

" I know something!" — from one of a little
group of gossipers on the outside of the wall.
"She needn't stick her chin out an' not come
an' play with us. She's nothing but an
adopted!"

"Oh! — a what?" in awestruck chorus
40

The Adopted

from the listeners. "Say it again, Rhody
Sharp."

"An adopted — that's all she is. I guess
nobody but an adopted need to go trampin'
past when we invite her to play with us! I
guess we're good as she is an' better, too, so
there!"

Margaret in her hidden nook heard with a
cold terror creeping over her and settling
around her heart. It was so close now that
she breathed with difficulty. If — supposing
they meant —

"Rhody Sharp, you're fibbing! I don't
believe a single word you say!" sprang forth
a champion valiantly. "She's dreadfully
fond of her mother — just dreadfully /"

"She doesn't know it," promptly returned
Rhody Sharp, her voice stabbing poor
Margaret's ear like a sharp little sword.
"They're keeping it from her. My gran'-
mother doesn't believe they'd ought to.
She says — "

But nobody cared what Rhody Sharp's
gran 'mother said. A clatter of shocked little
voices burst forth into excited, pitying dis-
41

The Very Small Person

cussion of the unfortunate who was nothing
but an adopted. One of their own number!
One they spelled with and multiplied with
and said the capitals with every day! That
they had invited to come and play with them
— an' she'd stuck her chin out!

"Why! Why, then she's a — orphan!" one
voice exclaimed. ''Really an' honest she is
— an* she doesn't know it!"

"Oh, my, isn't it awful!" another voice.
"Shouldn't you think she'd hide her head —
I mean, if she knew?"

It was already hidden. Deep down in the
sweet, moist grass — a little heavy, uncrown-
ed, terror-smitten head. The cruel voices
kept on.

" It's just like a disgrace, isn't it ? Should-
n't you s'pose it would feel that way if 'twas
you?"

"Think o' kissin' your mother good-night
an' it's not bein' your mother?"

"Say, Rhody Sharp — all o' you — look

here! Do you suppose that's why her

mother — I mean she that isn't — dresses her

in checked aperns ? That's what orphans — "

42

The Adopted

The shorn head dug deeper. A soft groan
escaped Margaret's lips. This very minute,
now while she crouched in the grass, — oh, if
she put out her hands and felt she would
feel the checks! She had been to an orph —
to a place once with Moth — with Her and
seen the aprons herself. They were all — all
checked.

At home, folded in a beautiful pile, there
were all the others. There was the pink-
checked one and the brown-checked one and
the prettiest one of all, the one with teenty
little white checks marked off with buff.
The one she should feel if she put out her
hand was a blue-checked.

Margaret drove her hands deep into the
matted grass; she would not put them out.
It was — it was terrible ! Now she understood
it all. She remembered — things. They
crowded — with capital T's, Things, — up to
her and pointed their fingers at her, and
smiled dreadful smiles at her, and whispered
to one another about her. They sat down on
her and jounced up and down, till she gasped
for breath.

43

The Very Small Person

The teacher's bell rang crisply and the
voices changed to scampering feet. But
Margaret crouched on in the sweet, moist
grass behind the wall. She stayed there a
week — a month — a year, — or was it only till
the night chill stole into her bones and she
crept away home ?

She and Nell — she and the Enemy — had
been so proud to have aprons just alike and
cut by the same dainty pattern. But now
if she knew — if the Enemy knew! How
ashamed it would make her to have on one
like — like an adopted's! How she'd wish
her's was stripes! Perhaps — oh, perhaps she
would think it was fortunate that she was an
enemy now.

But the worst Things that crowded up
and scoffed and gibed were not Things that
had to do with enemies. The worst-of-all
Things had to do with a little, tender woman
with glasses on — whose hair didn't curl.
Those Things broke Margaret's heart.

' ' Now you know why She makes you make
the bed over again when it's wrinkly," gibed
one Thing.

44

SHE STAYED THERE A WEEK A MONTH A YEAR

The Adopted

"And why she makes you mend the holes
in your stockings," another Thing.

"She doesn't make me do the biggest
ones!" flashed Margaret, hotly, but she could
not stem the tide of Things. It swirled in.

"Perhaps now you see why She makes
you hem towels and wipe dishes — "

"And won't let you eat two pieces of
pie-"

"Or one piece o' fruit-cake — "

"Maybe you remember now the times
she's said, 'This is no little daughter of
mine'?"

Margaret turned sharply. " That was only
because I was naughty," she pleaded, strick-
enly, but she knew in her soul it wasn't
"only because." She knew it was because.
The terror within her was growing more ter-
rible every moment.

Then came shame. Like the evilest of the
evil Things it had been lurking in the back-
ground waiting its turn, — it was its turn now.
Margaret stood quite still, ashamed. She
could not name the strange feeling, for she
had never been ashamed before, but she sat
45

The Very Small Person

there a piteous little figure in the grip of it.
It was awful to be only nine and feel like
that! To shrink from going home past Mrs.
Streeter's and the minister's and the Enemy's!
— oh, most of all past the Enemy's! — for fear
they'd look out of the window and say,
"There goes an adopted!" Perhaps they'd
point their fingers. — Margaret closed her eyes
dizzily and saw Mrs. Streeter's plump one
and the minister's lean one and the Enemy's
short brown one, all pointing. She could
feel something burning her on her forehead,
— it was "Adopted," branded there.

The Enemy was worst. Margaret crept
under the fence just before she got to the
Enemy's house and went a weary, round-
about way home. She could not bear to
have this dearest Enemy see her in her
disgrace.

Moth — She That Had Been — would be
wondering why Margaret was late. If she
looked sober out of her eyes and said, "This
can't be my little girl, can it?" then Mar-
garet would know for certain. That would
be the final proof.

46

The Adopted

The chimney was in sight now, — now the
roof, — now the kitchen door, and She That
Had Been was in it! She was shading her
eyes and looking for the little girl that
wasn't hers. A sob rose in the little girl's
throat, but she tramped steadily on. It did
not occur to her to snatch off her hat and
wave it, as little girls that belonged did.
She had done it herself.

The kitchen door was very near indeed
now. It did not seem to be Margaret that
was moving, but the kitchen door. It seem-
ed to be coming to meet her and bringing
with it a dear slender figure. She looked up
and saw the soberness in its dear eyes.

"This can't be my little girl, can — " but
Margaret heard no more. With a muffled
wail she fled past the slender figure, up-
stairs, that she did not see at all, to her own
little room. On the bed she lay and felt her
heart break under her awful little checked
apron. For now she knew for certain.

Two darknesses shut down about her, and
in the heart-break of one she forgot to be
afraid of the other. She had always before
47

The Very Small Person

been afraid of the night-dark and imagined
creepy steps coming along the hall and into
the door. The things she imagined now were
dreadfuler than that. This new dark was so
much darker!

They thought she was asleep and let her
lie there on her little bed alone. By-and-by
would be time enough to probe gently for the
childish trouble. Perhaps she would leave
it behind her in her sleep.

Out-of-doors suddenly a new sound rose
shrill above the crickets and the frogs. It
was the Enemy singing "Glory, glory, halle-
lujah." That was the last straw. Margaret
writhed deeper into the pillows. She knew
what the rest of it was — "Glory, glory, halle-
lujah, 'tisn't me! My soul goes march-
ing on!" She was out there singing that
a-purpose!

In her desperate need for some one to lay
her trouble to, Margaret "laid it to" the
Enemy. A sudden, bitter, unreasoning re-
sentment took possession of her. If there
hadn't been an Enemy, there wouldn't have
been a trouble. Everything would have
48

The Adopted

been beautiful and — and respectable, just as
it was before. She would have been out
there singing " Glory, glory hallelujah,"
too.

"She's to blame — I hate her!" came muf-
fledly from the pillows. "Oh, I do! — I can't
help it, I do! I'm always going to hate her
forevermore! She needn't have — "

Needn't have what? What had the little
scape -goat out there in the twilight done?
But Margaret was beyond reasoning now.
"Mine enemy hath done it," was enough for
her. If she lived a thousand years — if she
lived two thousand — she would never speak
to the Enemy again, — never forgive her, —
never put her into her prayer again among
the God blesses.

A plan formulated itself after a while in
the dark little room. It was born of the
travail of the child's soul. Something must
be done — there was something she would do.
She began it at once, huddled up against the
window to catch the failing light. She would
pin it to her pin-cushion where they would
find it after — after she was gone. Did folks
49

The Very Small Person

ever mourn for an Adopted? In her sore
heart Margaret yearned to have them mourn.

"I have found it out," she wrote with her
trembling little fingers. "I don't supose its wick-
ed becaus I couldent help being one but it is
orful. It breaks your hart to find youre one all
of a suddin. If I had known before, I would have
darned the big holes too. Ime going away becaus
I canot bare living with folks I havent any right
to. The stik pin this is pined on with is for Her
That Wasent Ever my Mother for I love her still.
When this you see remember me the rose is red the
violet blue sugger is sweet and so are you.

" MARGARET."

She pinned it on tremblingly and then
crept back to bed. Perhaps she went to
sleep, — at any rate, quite suddenly there were
voices at her door — Her voice and — His. She
did not stir, but lay and listened to them.

"Dear child! Wouldn't you wake her up,
Henry? What do you suppose could have
happened?" That was the voice that used
to be Mother's. It made Margaret feel
thrilly and homesick.

"Something at school, probably, dear, —
you mustn't worry. All sorts of little

The Adopted

troubles happen at school." The voice that
used to be her Father's.

"I know, but this must have been a big
one. If you had seen her little face, Henry!
If she were Nelly, I should think somebody
had been telling her — about her origin, you
know — "

Margaret held her breath. Nelly was the
Enemy, but what was an origin ? This thing
that they were saying — hark?

"I've always expected Nelly to find out
that way — it would be so much kinder to
tell her at home. You know it would,
Henry, instead of letting her hear it from
strangers and get her poor little heart
broken. Henry, if God hadn't given us a
precious little child of our own and we had
ever adopted — "

Margaret dashed off the quilts and leaped
to the floor with a cry of ecstasy. The
anguish — the shame — the cruel gibing Things
— were left behind her; they had slid from
her burdened little heart at the first glorious
rush of understanding; they would never
come back, — never come back, — never come

The Very Small Person

back to Margaret! Glory, glory, hallelujah,
'twasn't her! Her soul went marching on!

The two at the door suffered an unexpect-
ed, an amazing onslaught from a flying little
figure. Its arms were out, were gathering
them both in, — were strangling them in wild,
exultant hugs.

"Oh! Oh, you're mine! I'm yours! We're
each others! I'm not an Adopted any more!
I thought I was, and I wasn't! I was going
away and die — oh, oh, oh!"

Then Margaret remembered the Enemy,
and in the throes of her pity the enmity was
swallowed up forever. The instant yearning
that welled up in her to put her arms around
the poor real Adopted almost stifled her.
She slid out of the two pairs of big tender
arms and scurried away like a hare. She
was going to find Nellie and love her — oh,
love her enough to make up! She would
give her the coral beads she had always ad-
mired; she would let her be mistress and
she'd be maid when they kept house, — she'd
let her have the frosting half of all their cake
and all the raisins.

52

The Adopted

"I'll let her wear the spangly veil when
we dress up — oh, poor, poor Nelly!" Mar-
garet cried softly as she ran. "And the
longest trail. She may be the richest and
have the most children — I'd rather."

There did not seem anything possible and
beloved that she would not let Nelly do.
She took agitated little leaps through the
soft darkness, sending on ahead her yearning
love in a tender little call : ' ' Nelly ! Nelly ! ' '

She could never be too tender — too gener-
ous— to Nelly, to try to make up. And all
her life she would take care of her and keep
her from finding out. She shouldn't find
out! When they were both, oh, very old,
she would still be taking care of Nelly like
that.

"Nelly! Nelly!"

If she could only think of some Great
Thing she could do, that would — would hurt
to do! And then she thought. She stopped
quite suddenly in her impetuous rush, stilled
by the Greatness of it.

"I'll let her love her mother the best,"
whispered Margaret to the stars, — " so there!"
53

CHAPTER IV

Bobby Unwelcome

Bobby Unwelcome

&OBBY had learned U that
day in school, and he strut-
ted home beside his nurse,
Olga, with conscious reliet
in the swing of his sturdy
legs. There was a special
reason why Bobby felt relieved to get to U.
He glanced up, up, up, sidewise, at the non-
committal face so far above him, and won-
dered in his anxious little way whether or
not it "would be prudent to speak of the
special reason now. Olga had times, Bobby
had discovered, when you dassent speak of
things, and it looked — yes, cert'nly — as
though she was having one now. Still, if
you only dast to —

"It's the same one that's in the middle
57

The Very Small Person

o' my name, don't you know," he plunged
in, hurriedly.

"Mercy! What iss it the child iss talk-
ing about!"

There! wasn't she having one? Didn't
she usually say "Mercy!" like that when
she was?

"That letter, you know — U. The one in
the middle o' my name," Bobby hastened
on — "right prezac'ly in the middle of it. I
wish" — but he caught himself up with a
jerk. It didn't seem best, after all, to con-
sult Olga now — not now, while she was hav-
ing one. Better wait — only, dear, dear, dear,
how long he had waited a 'ready!

It had not occurred to Bobby to consult
his mother. They two were not intimately
acquainted, and naturally he felt shy.

Bobby's mother was very young and beau-
tiful. He had seen her dressed in a won-
drous soft white dress once, with little
specks of shiny things burning on her bare
throat, and ever since he had known what
angels look like.

There were reasons enough why Bobby
58

Bobby Unwelcome

seldom saw his mother. The house was
very big, and her room so far away from his ;
— that was one reason. Then he always
went to bed, and got up, and ate his meals
before she did.

There was another reason why he and the
beautiful young mother did not know each
other very well, but even Olga had never
explained that one. Bobby had that ahead
of him to find out, — poor Bobby! Some one
had called him Fire Face once at school, but
the kind-hearted teacher had never let it
happen again.

At home, in the great empty house, the
mirrors were all high up out of reach, and
in the nursery there had never been any at
all. Bobby had never looked at himself in
a mirror. Of course he had seen himself up
to his chin — dear, yes — and admired his own
little straight legs often enough, and doubled
up his little round arms to hunt for his
"muscle." In a quiet, unobtrusive way
Bobby was rather proud of himself. He had
to be — there was no one else, you see. And
even at six, when there is so little else to do,
59

The Very Small Person

one can put in considerable time regarding
one's legs and arms.

"I guess you don't call those bow-legged
legs, do you, Olga?" he had exulted once, in
an unguarded moment when he had been
thinking of Cleggy Munro's legs at school.
"I guess you call those pretty straight-up-
'n'-down ones!" And the hard face of the
old nurse had suddenly softened in a strange,
pleasant way, and for the one only time that
he could remember, Olga had taken Bobby
in her arms and kissed him.

"They're beautiful legs, that iss so," Olga
had said, but she hadn't been looking at
them when she said it. She had been look-
ing straight into his face. The look hurt,
too, Bobby remembered. He did not know
what pity was, but it was that that hurt.

The night after he learned U at school
Bobby decided to hazard everything and
ask Olga what the one in his name stood for.
He could not put it off any longer.

"Olga, what does the U in the middle o'
my name stand for ?" he broke out, suddenly,
while he was being unbuttoned for bed. "I
60

Bobby Unwelcome

know it's a U, but I don't know a U-what.
I've 'tided I won't go to bed till I've found
out."

Things had gone criss-cross. The old Nor-
wegian woman was not in a good humor.

"Unwelcome — that iss what it must stand
for," she laughed unpleasantly.

"Bobby Unwelcome!" Bobby laughed
too. Then a piteous little suspicion crept
into his mind and began to grow. He
turned upon Olga sharply. "What does
Unwelcome mean?" he demanded.

"Eh? Iss it not enough plain to you?
Well, not wanted — that iss what it means
then."

"Not wanted, — not wanted." Bobby re-
peated the words over and over to himself,
not quite satisfied yet. They sounded bad —
oh, very; but perhaps Olga had got them
wrong. She was not a United States per-
son. It would be easy for another kind of
a person to get things wrong. Still — "not
wanted" — they certainly sounded very plain.
And they meant — Bobby gave a faint gasp,
and suddenly his thoughts turned dizzily
61

The Very Small Person

round and round one terrible pivot — "not
wanted. ' ' He sprang away out of the nurse 's
hands and darted down the long, bright hall
to his mother's room. She was being dressed
for a ball, and the room was pitilessly light.
She sat at a table with a little mirror before
her. Suddenly another face appeared in it
with hers — a little, scarred, red face, stamped
deep with childish woe. The contrast ap-
palled her.

Bobby was not looking into the glass, but
into her beautiful face.

"Is that what it stands for?" he demand-
ed, breathlessly. "She said so. Did she
lie?"

"Robert! For Heaven's sake, child, stand
away! You are tearing my lace. What are
you doing here? Why are you not in bed?"

"Does it stand for that?1' he persisted.

"Does what stand for what? Look, you
are crushing my dress. Stand farther off.
Don't you see, child?"

"She said the U in the middle o' my name
stood for Not Wanted. Does it? Tell me
quick. Does it?"

62

Bobby Unwelcome

The contrast of the two faces in her mirror
hurt her like a blow. It brought back all
the disappointment and the wounded vanity
of that time, six years ago, when they had
shown her the tiny, disfigured face of her
son.

"No, it wasn't that. I morember now.
It was Unwelcome, but it means that. Is
the middle o' my name Unwelcome — what?"

"Oh yes, yes, yes!" she cried, scarcely
knowing what she said. The boy's eyes fol-
lowed hers to the mirror, and in that brief,
awful space he tasted of the Tree of Knowl-
edge.

With a little cry he stumbled backward
into the lighted hall. There was a slip, and
the sound of a soft little body bounding
down the polished stairs.

A good while afterwards Bobby opened his
eyes wonderingly. There seemed to be peo-
ple near him, but he could not see them at
all distinctly. A faint, wonderful perfume
crept to him.

"It's very dark, isn't it?" he said, in sur-
prise. "I can smell a beautiful smell, but
63

The Very Small Person

I can't see it. Why, why! It isn't you, is
it? — not my mother? Why, I wasn't 'spect-
ing to find — Oh, I morember it now — I
morember it all! Then I'm glad it's dark.
I shouldn't want it to be as light as that
again. Oh no! oh no! I shouldn't want
her to see — Why, she's crying! What is
she crying for?"

He put out a small weak hand and groped
towards the sound of bitter sobbing. In-
stinctively he knew it was she.

"I'm very sorry. I guess I know what
the matter is. It's me, and I'm very sorry.
I never knew it before; no, I never. I'm
glad it's dark now — aren't you? — 'count o'
that. Only I'm a little speck sorry it isn't
light enough for you to see my legs. They're
very straight ones — you can ask Olga. You
might feel of 'em if you thought 'twould
help any to. P'r'aps it might make you
feel a very little — just a very little — better
to. They're cert'nly very straight ones.
But then of course they aren't like a — like
a — a face. They're only legs. But they're
the best I can do."

64

Bobby Unwelcome

He ended wearily, with a sigh of pain.
The bitter sobbing kept on, and seemed to
trouble him. Then a new idea occurred to
him, and he made a painful effort to turn
on his pillow and to speak brightly.

"I didn't think of that— P'r'aps you
think I'm feeling bad 'count o' the U in the
middle o' my name. Is that what makes
you cry? Why, you needn't. That's all
right! After — after I looked in there, of
course I knew 'bout how it was. I wish you
wouldn't cry. It joggles my — my heart."

But it was his little broken body that it
joggled. The mother found it out, and
stopped sobbing by a mighty effort. She
drew very close to Bobby in the dark that
was light to every one else, and laid her wet
cheek against the little, scarred, red face.
The motion was so gentle that it scarcely
stirred the yellow tendrils of his soft hair.
An infinite tenderness was born out of her
anguish. There was left her a merciful mo-
ment to be a mother in. Bobby forgot his
pain in the bliss of it.

"Why, why, this is very nice!" he mur-
65

The Very Small Person

mured, happily. "I never knew it would be
as nice as this — I never knew! But I'm glad
it's dark, — aren't you? I'd rather it would
—be- -dark."

And then it grew altogether dark for
Bobby, and the little face against the new-
born, heart-broken mother's cheek felt cold,
and would not warm with all her passionate
kisses.

CHAPTER V

The Little Girl Who Should
Have Been a Boy

The Little Girl Who Should
Have Been a Boy

£HERE was so much time for
the Little Girl who should
have been a Boy to ponder
over it. She was only seven,
but she grew quite skilful in
, pondering. After lessons —
and lessons were over at eleven — there was
the whole of the rest of the day to wander,
in her little, desolate way, in the gardens.
She liked the fruit -garden best, and the
Golden Pippin tree was her choicest ponder-
ing-place. There was never any one there
with her. The Little Girl who should have
been a Boy was always alone.

"You see how it is. I've told you times
69

The Very Small Person

enough," she communed with herself, in her
quaint, unchildish fashion. "You are a mis-
take. You went and was born a Girl, when
they wanted a Boy — oh, my, how they want-
ed a Boy! But the moment they saw you
they knew it was all up with them. You
wasn't wicked, really, — I guess it wasn't
wicked; sometimes I can't be certain, — but
you did go and make such a silly mistake!
Look at me, — why didn't you know how
much they wanted a Boy and didn't want
you? Why didn't you be brave and go up
to the Head Angel, and say, 'Send me to
another place; for pity sake don't send me
there. They want a Little Boy. ' Why didn't
you — oh, why didn't you? It would have
saved such a lot of trouble!"

The Little Girl who should have been a
Boy always sighed at that point. The sigh
made a period to the sad little speech, for
after that she always sat in the long grass
under the Golden Pippin tree and rocked
herself back and forth silently. There was
no use in saying anything more after that.
It had all been said.

70

The Little Girl

It was a great, beautiful estate, to east and
west and north and south of her, and the
Boy the Head Angel should have sent instead
of the sad Little Girl was to have inherited
it all. And there was a splendid title that
.went with the estate. In the sharp mind of
the Little Girl nothing was hidden or undis-
covered.

"It seems a pity to have it wasted," she
mused, wistfully, with her grave wide eyes
on the beautiful green expanses all about
her, "just for a mistake like that, — I mean
like me — too. You'd think the Head Angel
would be ashamed of himself, wouldn't you?
Heprob'ly is."

The Shining Mother — it was thus the
Little Girl who should have been a Boy had
named her, on account of her sparkling eyes
and wonderful sparkling gowns; everything
about the Shining Mother sparkled — the Shin-
ing Mother was almost always away. So
was the Ogre. Somewhere outside — clear
outside — of the green expanses there was a
gay, frivolous world where almost always
they two stayed.

The Very Small Person

The Little Girl called her father the Ogre
for want of a better name. She was never
quite satisfied with the name, but it had to
answer till she found another. Prob'ly ogres
didn't wear an eye-glass in one of their eyes,
or flip off the sweet little daisy heads with
cruel canes, but they were oldish and
scare-ish, and of course they wouldn't have
noticed you any, even if you were their Little
Girl. Ogres would have prob'ly wanted a
Boy too, and that's the way they'd have let
you see your mistake. So, till she found a
better name, the Little Girl who had made
the mistake called her father the Ogre. She
was very proud and fond of the Shining
Mother, but she was a little afraid of the
Ogre. After all, one feeling mattered about
as much as the other.

"It doesn't hurt you any to be afraid,
when you do it all alone by yourself," she
reasoned, "and it doesn't do you any good
to be fond. It only amuses you," she
added, with sad wisdom. As I said, she was
only seven, but she was very old indeed.

So the time went along until the weeks
72

The Little Girl

piled up into months. The summer she
was eight, the Little Girl could not stand
it any longer. She decided that something
must be done. The Shining Mother and
the Ogre were coming back to the green
expanses. She had found that out at les-
sons.

"And then they will have it all to go over
again — all the miser 'bleness of my not being
a Boy," the Little Girl thought, sadly.
"And I don't know whether they can stand
it or not, but 7 can't."

A wave of infinite longing had swept over
the shy, sensitive soul of the Little Girl who
should have been a Boy. One of two things
must happen — she must be loved, or die.
So, being desperate, she resolved to chance
everything. It was under the Golden Pippin
tree, rocking herself back and forth in the
long grass, that she made her plans. Straight
on the heels of them she went to the gar-
dener's little boy.

"Lend me — no, I mean give me — your
best clothes," she said, with gentle imperi-
ousness. It was not a time to waste words,
73

The Very Small Person

At best, the time that was left to practise
in was limited enough.

"Your best clothes," she had said, realiz-
ing distinctly that fustian and corduroy
would not do. She was even a little doubt-
ful of the best clothes. The gardener's little
boy, once his mouth had shut and his legs
come back to their locomotion, brought
them at once. If there was a suspicion of
alacrity in his obedience towards the last, it
escaped the thoughtful eyes of the Little
Girl. Having always been a mistake, noth-
ing more, how could she know that a boy's
best clothes are not always his dearest pos-
sessions ? Now if it had been the threadbare,
roomy, easy little fustians, with their pre-
cious pocket-loads, that she had demanded!

There were six days left to practise in —
only six. How the Little Girl practised!
It was always quite alone by herself. She
did it in a sensible, orderly way, — the leaps
and strides first, whoops next, whistle last.
The gardener's little boy's best clothes she
kept hidden in the long grass, under the
Golden Pippin tree, and on the fourth day
74

The Little Girl

she put them on. Oh, the agony of the
fourth day! She came out of that practice
period a wan, white, worn little thing that
should never have been a Boy.

For it was heart-breaking work. Every
instinct of the Little Girl's rebelled against
it. It was terrible to leap and whoop and
whistle; her very soul revolted. But it was
life or death to her, and always she perse-
vered.

In those days lessons scarcely paid. They
were only a pitiful makeshift. The Little
Girl lived only in her terrible practice hours.
She could not eat or sleep. She grew thin
and weak.

"I don't look like me at all," she told
herself, on a chair before her mirror. "But
that isn't the worst of it. I don't look like
the Boy, either. Ugh! how I look! I won-
der if the Angel would know me ? It would
be kind of dreadful not to have anybody
know you. Well, you won't be you when
you're the Boy, so prob'ly it won't mat-
ter."

On the sixth day — the last thing — she cut
75

The Very Small Person

her hair off. She did it with her eyes shut
to give herself courage, but the snips of the
shears broke her heart. The Little Girl had
always loved her soft, shining hair. It had
been like a beautiful thing apart from her,
that she could caress and pet. She had made
an idol of it, having nothing else to love.

When it was all shorn off she crept out of
the room without opening her eyes. After
that the gardener's little boy's best clothes
came easier to her, she found. And she
could whoop and leap and whistle a little
better. It was almost as if she had really
made herself the Boy she should have
been.

Then the Shining Mother came, and the
Ogre. The Little Girl — I mean the Boy-
was waiting for them, swinging her — his —
feet from a high branch of the Golden Pip-
pin tree. He was whistling.

"But I think I am going to die," he
thought, behind the whistle. "I'm certain
I am. I feel it coming on."

Of course, after a little, there was a hunt
everywhere for the Little Girl. Even little
76

The Little Girl

girls cannot slip out of existence like that,
undiscovered. The beautiful green expanses
were hunted over and over, but only a gar-
dener's little boy in his best clothes, whistling
faintly, was found. He fell out of the Gol-
den Pippin tree as the field-servants went
by, and they stopped to carry his limp little
figure to the gardener's lodge. Then the
hunt went forward again. The Shining
Mother grew faint and sick with fear, and
the Ogre strode about like one demented.
It was hardly what was to be expected of
the Shining Mother and the Ogre.

Towards night the mystery was partly
solved. It was the Shining Mother who
found the connecting threads. She found
the little, jagged locks of soft, sweet hair.
The Ogre came upon her sitting on the floor
among them, and the whiteness of her face
terrified him.

"I know — you need not tell me what has
happened!" she said, scarcely above a whis-
per, as if in the presence of the dead. "A
door in me has opened, and I see it all — all,
I tell you! We have never had her, — and
77

The Very Small Person

now, dear God in heaven, we have lost
her!"

It was very nearly so. They could hardly
know then how near it came to being true.
Link by link they came upon the little chain
of pitiful proofs. They found all the little,
sweet, white girl-clothes folded neatly by
themselves and laid in a pile together, as if
on an altar for sacrifice. If the Little Girl
had written "Good-bye" in her childish
scrawl upon them, the Shining Mother would
not have better understood. So many things
she was seeing beyond that open door.

They found the Little Girl's dolls laid out
like little, white-draped corpses in one of her
bureau - drawers. The row of stolid little
faces gazed up at them with the mystery of
the Sphinx in all their glittering eyes. It
was the Shining Mother who shut the drawer,
but first she kissed the faces.

After all, the Ogre discovered the last little
link of the chain. He brought it home in his
arms from the gardener's lodge, and laid it
on the Little Girl's white bed. It was very
still and pitiful and small. They took the
78

The Little Girl

gardener's little boy's best clothes off from
it and put on the soft white night-gown of
the Little Girl. Then, one on one side and
one on the other, they kept their long hard
vigil.

It was night when the Little Girl opened
her eyes, and the first thing they saw was
the chairful of little girl-clothes the Shining
Mother had set beside the bed. Then they
saw the Shining Mother. Things came back
to the Little Girl by slow degrees. But the
look in the Shining Mother's face — that did
not come back. That had never been there
before. The Little Girl, in her wise, old way,
understood that look, and gasped weakly
with the joy and wonder of it. Oh, the joy!
Oh, the wonder!

"But I tried to be one," she whispered
after a while, a little bewildered still. " I
should have done it, if I hadn't died. I
couldn't help that; I felt it coming on.
Prob'ly, though, I shouldn't have made a
very good one."

The Shining Mother bent over and took
the Little Girl in her arms.
79

The Very Small Person

"Dear," she whispered, "it was the Boy
that died. I am glad he died."

So, though the Ogre and the Shining
Mother had not found their Boy, the Little
Girl had found a father and mother.

CHAPTER VI

The Lie

The Lie

[HE Lie went up to bed with
him. Russy didn't want it
to, but it crept in through
the key-hole, — it must have
been the key-hole, for the
door was shut the minute
Metta's skirt had whisked through. But
one thing Russy had to be thankful for, —
Metta didn't know it was there in the room.
As far as that went, it was a kind-hearted
Lie. But after Metta went away, — after
she had put out the light and said " Pleasant
dreams, Master Russy, an' be sure an' don't
roll out," — after that!

Russy snuggled deep down in the pillows
and said he would go right to sleep; oh,
right straight! He always had before. It
7 83

The Very Small Person

made you forget the light was out, and
there were queer, creaky night -noises all
round your bed, — under it some of 'em ; over
by the bureau some of 'em ; and some of 'em
coming creepy, cree-py up the stairs. You
dug your head deep down in the pillows, and
the next thing you knew you were asleep,—
no, awake, and the noises were beautiful
day-ones that you liked. You heard roosters
crowing, and Mr. Vandervoort's cows calling
for breakfast, and, likely as not, some mother-
birds singing duets with their husbands.
Oh yes, it was a good deal the best way to
do, to go right straight to sleep when Metta
put the light out.

But to-night it was different, for the Lie
was there. You couldn't go to sleep with a
Lie in the room. It was worse than creepy,
creaky noises, — mercy, yes! You'd swap it
for those quick enough and not ask a single
bit of "boot." You almost wanted to hear
the noises.

It came across the room. There was no
sound, but Russy knew it was coming well
enough. He knew when it got up close to
84

"IT WAS WORSE THAN CREEPY, CREAKY NOISES

The Lie

the side of the bed. Then it stopped and
began to speak. It wasn't "out loud" and
it wasn't a whisper, but Russy heard it.

"Move over; I'm coming into bed with
you," the Lie said. " I hope you don't think
I'm going to sit up all night. Besides, I'm
always scared in the dark, — it runs in my
family. The Lies are always afraid. They're
not good sleepers, either, so let's talk. You
begin — or shall I?"

"You," moaned Russy.

"Well, I say, this is great, isn't it! I like
this house. I stayed at Barney Toole's last
night and it doesn't begin with this. Bar-
ney's folks are poor, and there aren't any
curtains or carpets or anything, — nor pillows
on the bed. I never slept a wink at Barney's.
I'm hoping I shall drop off here, after a
while. It's a new place, and I'm more likely
to in new places. You never slept with one
o' my family before, did you?"

"No," Russy groaned. "Oh no, I never
before!"

"That's what I thought. I should have
been likely to hear of it if you had. I was a
85

The Very Small Person

little surprised, — I say, what made you have
anything to do with me. I was never more
surprised in my life! They'd always said:
'Well, you'll never get acquainted with that
Russy Rand. He's another kind.' Then
you went and shook hands with me!"

"I had to." Russy sat up in bed and
stiffened himself for self-defence. " I had to!
When Jeffy Vandervoort said that about Her
—well, I guess you'd have had to if they
said things about your mother — "

"I never had one. The Lies have a
Father, that's all. Go ahead."

"There isn't anything else, — I just had
to."

"Tell what you said and what he said.
Go ahead."

" You know all about — "

"Go ahead!"

Russy rocked himself back and forth in
his agony. It was dreadful to have to say
it all over again.

"Well, then," doggedly, "Jeffy said my
mother never did, but his did — oh, always!"

"Did what — oh, always?"
86

The Lie

Russy clinched his little round fingers till
the bones cracked under the soft flesh.

"Kissed him good-night — went up to his
room a-purpose to, an' — an' — tucked him in.
Oh, always, he said. He said mine never did.
An' I said—"

"You said — go ahead!"

"I said she did, too, — oh — always,"
breathed Russy in the awful dark. " I had
to. When it's your mother, you have to — "

" I never had one, I told you! How do I
know? Go on."

He was driven on relentlessly. He had it
all to go through with, and he whispered the
rest hurriedly to get it done.

" I said she tucked me in, — came up a-pur-
pose to, — an' always kissed me twice (his
only does once), an' always — called me —
Dear." Russy fell back in a heap on the
pillows and sobbed into them.

"My badness!" — anybody but a Lie would
have said "my goodness," — "but you did do
it up brown that time, didn't you! But I
don't suppose he believed a word of it — you
didn't make him believe you, did you?"
87

The Very Small Person

"He had to," cried out Russy, fiercely.
' ' He said I 'd never lied to him in my life —

"Before; — yes, I know."

Russy slipped out of bed and padded over
the thick carpet towards the place where the
window -seat was in the daytime. But it
wasn't there. He put out his hands and
hunted desperately for it. Yes, there, — no,
that was sharp and hard and hurt you.
That must be the edge of the bureau. He
tried again, for he must find it, — he must!
He would not stay in bed with that Lie an-
other minute. It crowded him, — it tortured
him so.

"This is it," thought Russy, and sank
down gratefully on the cushions. His bare
feet scarcely touched toe-tips to the floor.
Here he would stay all night. This was
better than —

" I'm coming, — which way are you ? Can 't
you speak up?"

The Lie was coming, too! Suddenly an

awful thought flashed across Russy 's little,

weary brain. What if the Lie would always

come, too ? What if he could never get away

88

The Lie

from it ? What if it slept with him, walked
with him, talked with him, lived with him, —
oh, always!

But Russy stiffened again with dogged
courage. "I had to!" he thought. "I had
to, — I had to, — I had to! When he said
things about Her, — when it's your mother, —
you have to."

A great time went by, measureless by
clock-ticks and aching little heart-beats. It
seemed to be weeks and months to Russy.
Then he began to feel a slow relief creeping
over his misery, and he said to himself the
Lie must have "dropped off." There was
not a sound of it in the room. It grew so
still and beautiful that Russy laughed to
himself in his relief. He wanted to leap to
his feet and dance about the room, but he
thought of the sharp corners and hard edges
of things in time. Instead, he nestled among
the cushions of the window-seat and laughed
on softly. Perhaps it was all over, — perhaps
it wasn't asleep, but had gone away — to
Barney Toole's, perhaps, where they regularly
"put up" Lies, — and would never come
89

The Very Small Person

back! Russy gasped for joy. Perhaps when
you'd never shaken hands with a Lie but
once in your life, and that time you had to,
and you'd borne it, anyway, for what seemed
like weeks and months, — perhaps then they
went away and left you in peace! Perhaps
you'd had punishment enough then.

Very late Russy's mother came up-stairs.
She was very tired, and her pretty young
face in the frame of soft down about her
opera-cloak looked a little cross. Russy's
father plodded behind more heavily.

"The boy's room, Ellen? — just this once?"
he pleaded in her ear. "It will take but a
minute."

"I'm so tired, Carter! Well, if I must-
Why, he isn't in the bed!"

The light from the hall streamed in, show-
ing it tumbled and tossed as if two had slept
in it. But no one was in it now. The
mother's little cry of surprise sharpened to
anxiety.

"Where is he, Carter? Why don't you
speak? He isn't here in bed, I tell you!
Russy isn't here!"

90

The Lie

"He has rolled out, — no, he hasn't rolled
out. I'll light up — there he is, Ellen!
There's the little chap on the window-seat!"

"And the window is open!" she cried,
sharply. She darted across to the little
figure and gathered it up into her arms.
She had never been frightened about Russy
before. Perhaps it was the fright that
brought her to her own.

"He is cold, — his little night-dress is
damp!" she said. Then her kisses rained
down on the little, sleeping face. In his
sleep, Russy felt them, but he thought it was
Jeffy's mother kissing Jeffy.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" he murmured.
"I don't wonder Jeffy likes it! If my
mother kissed me — I told Jeffy she did!
It was a Lie, but I had to. You have to,
when they say things like that about your
mother. You have to say she kisses you —
oh, always! She comes 'way up-stairs every
night a-purpose to. An' she tucks you in,
an' she calls you — Dear. It's a Lie an' it
'most kills you, but you have to say it. But
it's perfectly awful afterwards." He nestled

The Very Small Person

against the soft down of her cloak and moan-
ed as if in pain. " It's awful afterwards when
you have to sleep with the Lie. It's perfectly
-aw— ful— "

"Oh, Carter!" the mother broke out, for
it was all plain to her. In a flash of agonized
understanding the wistful little sleep-story
was filled out in every detail. She under-
stood all the tragedy of it.

"Russy! Russy!" She shook him in her
eagerness. "Russy, it's my kisses! I'm
kissing you! It isn't Jeffy's mother, — it's
your mother, Russy! Feel them! — don't you
feel them on your forehead and your hair
and your little red lips? It's your mother
kissing you!"

Russy opened his eyes.

"Why! Why, so it is!" he said:

"And calling you 'Dear,' Russy! Don't
you hear her? Dear boy, — dear little boy!
You hear her, don't you, Russy — dear?"

"Why, yes!— why!"

"And tucking you into bed — like this, —
so! She's tucking in the blanket now, — and
now the little quilt, Russy. That is what
92

The Lie

mothers are for — I never thought before —
oh, I never thought!" She dropped her face
beside his on the pi low and fell to kissing
him again. He held his face quite still for
the sweet, strange baptism. Then suddenly
he laughed out happily, wildly.

"Then it isn't a Lie!" he cried, in a delirium
of relief and joy. " It's true!"

CHAPTER VII

The Princess of Make-
Believe

The Princess of Make-
Believe

[HE Princess was washing
dishes. On her feet she
would barely have reached
the rim of the great dish-
pan, but on the soap-box
she did very well. A grimy
calico apron trailed to the floor.

"Now this golden platter I must wash
extry clean," the Princess said. "The Queen
is ve-ry particular about her golden platters.
Last time, when I left one o' the corners —
it's such a nextremely heavy platter to hold
— she gave me a scold — oh, I mean — I mean
she tapped me a little love pat on my cheek
with her golden spoon."

It was a great, brown-veined, stoneware
97

The Very Small Person

platter, and the arms of the Princess ached
with holding it. Then, in an unwary instant,
it slipped out of her soapsudsy little fingers
and crashed to the floor. Oh! oh! the
Queen! the Queen! She was coming! The
Princess heard her shrill, angry voice, and
felt the jar of her heavy steps. There was
the space of an instant — an instant is so
short! — before the storm broke.

"You little limb o' Satan! That's my
best platter, is it? Broke all to bits, eh?
I'll break — " But there was a flurry of
dingy apron and dingier petticoats, and the
little Princess had fled. She did not stop
till she was in her Secret Place among the
willows. Her small lean face was pale but
undaunted.

"Th-the Queen isn't feeling very well to-
day," she panted. "It's wash-day up at
the Castle. She never enjoys herself on
wash-days. And then that golden platter —
I'm sorry I smashed it all to flinders! When
the Prince comes I shall ask him to buy
another."

The Prince had never come, but the Prin-
98

The Princess of Make-Believe

cess waited for him patiently. She sat with
her face to the west and looked for him to
come through the willows with the red sun-
set light filtering across his hair. That was
the way the Prince was coming, though the
time was not set. It might be a good while
before he came, and then again — you never
could tell!

" But when he does, and we've had a little
while to get acquainted, then I shall say to
him, ' Hear, O Prince, and give ear to my —
my petition! For verily, verily, I have
broken many golden platters and jasper cups
and saucers, and the Queen, long live her!
is sore — sore — "'

The Princess pondered for the forgotten
word. She put up a little lean brown hand
and rubbed a tingling spot on her temple —
ah, not the Queen! It was the Princess —
long live her! — who was "sore."

"'I beseech thee, O Prince,' I shall say,
'buy new golden platters and jasper cups
and saucers for the Queen, and then shall I
verily, verily be — be — '"

Oh, the long words — how they slipped out
s 99

The Very Small Person

of reach! The little Princess sighed rather
wearily. She would have to rehearse that
speech so many times before the Prince came.
Suppose he came to-night! Suppose she
looked up now, this minute, towards the
golden west and he was there, swinging along
through the willow canes towards her!

But there was no one swinging along
through the willows. The yellow light flick-
ered through — that was all. Somewhere, a
long way off, sounded the monotonous hum
of men's voices. Through the lace- work of
willow twigs there showed the faintest possi-
ble blur of color. Down beyond, in the
clearing, the Castle Guards in blue jean
blouses were pulling stumps. The Princess
could not see their dull, passionless faces,
and she was glad of it. The Castle Guards
depressed her. But they were not as bad
as the Castle Guardesses. They were mostly
old women with bleared, dim eyes, and they
wore such faded — silks.

" My silk dress is rather faded," murmur-
ed the little Princess wistfully. She smooth-
ed down the scant calico skirt with her

100

The Princess of Make-Believe

brown little fingers. The patch in it she
would not see.

"I shall have to have the Royal Dress-
maker make me another one soon. Let me
see, — what color shall I choose? I'd like
my gold-colored velvet made up. I'm tired
of wearing royal purple dresses all the time,
though of course I know they're appropriater.
I wonder what color the Prince would like
best? I should rather choose that color."

The Princess's little brown hands were
clasped about one knee, and she was rocking
herself slowly back and forth, her eyes, wist-
ful and wide, on the path the Prince would
come. She was tired to-day and it was
harder to wait.

' ' But when he comes I shall say, ' Hear,
O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not know
which color you would like to find me dressed
— I mean arrayed — in, and so I beseech thee
excuse — pardon, I mean — mine infirmity."

The Princess was not sure of "infirmity,"
but it sounded well. She could not think of
a better word.

"And then — I think then — he will take

101

The Very Small Person

me in his arms, and his face will be all sweet
and splendid like the Mother o' God's in the
picture, and he will whisper, — I don't think
he will say it out loud, — oh, I'd rather not!—
' Verily, Princess,' he will whisper, ' Oh, verily,
verily, thou hast found favor in my sight!'
And that will mean that he doesn't care what
color I am, for he — loves — me."

Lower and lower sank the solemn voice of
the Princess. Slower and slower rocked the
little, lean body. The birds themselves
stopped singing at the end. In the Secret
Place it was very still.

"Oh no, no, no, — not verily!" breathed
the Princess, in soft awe. For the wonder
of it took her breath away. She had never
in her life been loved, and now, at this mo-
ment, it seemed so near! She thought she
heard the footsteps of the Prince.

They came nearer. The crisp twigs snap-
ped under his feet. He was whistling.

"Oh, I can't look!— I can't!" gasped the
little Princess, but she turned her face to the
west, — she had always known it would be
from the west, — and lifted closed eyes to his

IO2

The Princess of Make-Believe

coming. When he got to the Twisted Willow
she might dare to look, — to the Little Willow
Twins, anyway.

"And I shall know when he does," she
thought. "I shall know the minute!"

Her face was rapt and tender. The
miracle she had made for herself, — the gold
she had coined out of her piteous alloy,—
was it not come true at last ? — Verily, verily ?

Hush ! Was the Prince not coming through
the willows ? And the sunshine was trickling
down on his hair! The Princess knew,
though she did not look.

"He is at the Twisted Willow," she
thought. "Now he is at the Little Willow
Twins." But she did not open her eyes.
She did not dare. This was a little different,
she had never counted on being afraid.

The twigs snapped louder and nearer —
now very near. The merry whistle grew
clearer, and then it stopped.

"Hullo!"

Did princes say "hullo!" The Princess
had little time to wonder, for he was there
before her. She could feel his presence in
103

The Very Small Person

every fibre of her trembling little being,
though she would not open her eyes for very
fear that it might be somebody else. No, no,
it was the Prince! It was his voice, clear
and ringing, as she had known it would be.
She put up her hands suddenly and covered
her eyes with them to make surer. It was
not fear now, but a device to put off a little
longer the delight of seeing him.

" I say, hullo ! Haven't you got any tongue ?"

"Oh, verily, verily, — I mean hear, O
Prince, I beseech," she panted. The boy's
merry eyes regarded the shabby small person
in puzzled astonishment. He felt an impulse
to laugh and run away, but his royal blood
forbade either. So he waited.

"You are the Prince," the little Princess
cried. "I've been waiting the longest time,
—but I knew you'd come," she added, simply.
"Have you got your velvet an' gold buckles
on? I'm goin' to look in a minute, but I'm
waiting to make it spend."

The Prince whistled softly. "No," he
said then, "I didn't wear them clo'es to-day.
You see, my mother —
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The Princess of Make-Believe

"The Queen," she interrupted, "you mean
the Queen?"

"You bet I do! She's a reg'lar-builter!
Well, she don't like to have me wearin' out
my best clo'es every day," he said, gravely.

"No," eagerly, "nor mine don't. Queen,
I mean, — but she isn't a mother, mercy, no!
I only wear silk dresses every day, not my
velvet ones. This silk one is getting a little
faded." She released one hand to smooth
the dress wistfully. Then she remembered
her painfully practised little speech and
launched into it hurriedly.

"Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not
know which color you'd like to find me
dressed in — I mean arrayed. I beseech thee
to excuse — oh, pardon, I mean —

But she got no further. She could endure
the delay no longer, and her eyes flew open.

She had known his step; she had known
his voice. She knew his face. It was ter-
ribly freckled, and she had not expected
freckles on the face of the Prince. But the
merry, honest eyes were the Prince's eyes.
Her gaze wandered downward to the home-
I05

The Very Small Person

made clothes and bare, brown legs, but with-
out uneasiness. The Prince had explained
about his clothes. Suddenly, with a shy,
glad little cry, the Princess held out her
hands to him.

The royal blood flooded the face of the
Prince and filled in all the spaces between
its little, gold-brown freckles. But the Prince
held out his hand to her. His lips formed
for words and she thought he was going to
say, "Verily, Princess, thou hast found
favor — "

"Le* 's go fishin'," the Prince said.

CHAPTER VIII

The Promise

The Promise

[URRAY was not as one with-
out hope, for there was the
Promise. The remembrance
of it set him now to exulting,
in an odd, restrained little
way, where a moment ago
he had been desponding. He clasped plump,
brown little hands around a plump, brown
little knee and swayed gently this way and
that.

"Maybe she'll begin with my shoes," Mur-
ray thought, and held his foot quite still.
He could almost feel light fingers unlacing
the stubbed little shoe; Sheelah's fingers
were rather heavy and not patient with
knots. Hers would be patient — there are
some things one is certain of.
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The Very Small Person

"When she unbuttons me," Murray mused
on, sitting absolutely motionless, as if she
were unbuttoning him now — "when she un-
buttons me I shall hold in my breath — this
way," though he could hardly have explained
why.

She had never unlaced or unbuttoned him.
Always, since he was a little, breathing soul,
it had been Sheelah. It had never occurred
to him that he loved Sheelah, but he was
used to her. All the mothering he had ever
experienced had been the Sheelah kind —
thorough enough, but lacking something;
Murray was conscious that it lacked some-
thing. Perhaps — perhaps to-night he should
find out what. For to-night not Sheelah,
but his mother, was going to undress him
and put him to bed. She had promised.

It had come about through his unprece-
dented wail of grief at parting, when she
had gone into the nursery to say good-bye,
in her light, sweet way. Perhaps it was be-
cause she was to be gone all day; perhaps
he was a little lonelier than usual. He was
always rather a lonely little boy, but there
no

The Promise

were worse times; perhaps this had been a
worse time. Whatever had been the reason
that prompted him, he had with disquieting
suddenness, before Sheelah could prevent it,
flung his arms about the pretty mother and
made audible objection to her going.

"Why, Murray!" She had been taken by
surprise. "Why, you little silly! I'm com-
ing back to-night; I'm only going for the
day! You wouldn't see much more of me
if I stayed at home." Which, from its very
reasonableness, had quieted him. Of course
he would not see much more of her. As sud-
denly as he had wailed he stopped wailing.
Yet she had promised. Something had sent
her back to the nursery door to do it.

" Be a good boy and I'll come home before
you go to bed! I'll put you to bed," she
had promised. "We'll have a regular lark!"

Hence he was out here on the door-step
being a good boy. That Sheelah had taken
unfair advantage of the Promise and made
the being good rather a perilous undertaking,
he did not appreciate. He only knew he must
walk a narrow path across a long, lonely day.
in

The Very Small Person

There were certain things — one especial
certain thing — he wanted to know, but in-
stinct warned him not to interrupt Sheelah
till her work was done, or she might call it
not being good. So he waited, and while he
waited he found out the special thing. An
unexpected providence sent enlightenment
his way, to sit down beside him on the door-
step. Its other name was Daisy.

"Hullo, Murray! Is this you?" Daisy,
being of the right sex, asked needless ques-
tions sometimes.

"Yes," answered Murray, politely.

"Well, le's play. I can stay half a hour.
Le's tag."

"I can't play," rejoined Murray, caution
restraining his natural desires. "I'm being
good."

"Oh, my!" shrilled the girl child derisively.
"Can't you be good tagging? Come on."

"No; because you might — / might get
no-fairing, and then Sheelah 'd come out and
say I was bad. Le's sit here and talk; it's
safer to. What's a lark, Daisy? I was go-
ing to ask Sheelah."

112

"'i CAN'T PLAY . . I'M BRING GOOD'"

The Promise

"A — lark? Why, it's a bird, of course!"

"I don't mean the bird kind, but the kind
you have when your mother puts you — when
something splendid happens. That kind, I
mean."

Daisy pondered. Her acquaintance with
larks was limited, unless it meant —

"Do you mean a good time?" she asked.
"We have larks over to my house when we
go to bed — "

"That's it! That's the kind!" shouted
delighted Murray. "I'm going to have one
when I go to bed. Do you have regular ones,
Daisy?" with a secret little hope that she
didn't. "I'm going to have a reg'lar one."

"Huh! — chase all 'round the room an' turn
somersaults an' be highway robberers? An'
take the hair-pins out o' your mother's hair
an' hide in it — what?"

Murray gasped a little at the picture of
that kind of a lark. It was difficult to
imagine himself chasing 'round the room or
being a highwayman; and as for somer-
saults— he glanced uneasily over his shoul-
der, as if Sheelah might be looking and read

The Very Small Person

"somersaults" through the back of his head.
For once he had almost turned one and
Sheelah had found him in the middle of it
and said pointed things. In Sheelah 's code
of etiquette there were no somersaults in the
"s" column.

" It's a reg'lar lark to hide in your mother's
hair," was going on the girl child's voice.
"Yes, sir, that's the reg'larest kind!"

Murray gasped again, harder. For that
kind took away his breath altogether and
made him feel a little dizzy, as if he were —
were doing it now — hiding in his mother's
hair! It was soft, beautiful, gold-colored
hair, and there was a great deal of it — oh,
plenty to hide in! He shut his eyes and felt
it all about him and soft against his face,
and smelled the faint fragrance of it. The
dizziness was sweet.

Yes, that must be the reg'larest kind of a
lark, but Murray did not deceive himself,
once the dream was over. He knew that
kind was not waiting for him at the end of
this long day. But a lark was waiting, any-
way— a plain lark. It might have been the
114

The Promise

bird kind in his little heart now, singing for
joy at the prospect.

Impatience seized upon Murray. He want-
ed this little neighbor's half -hour to be up, so
that he could go in and watch the clock. He
wanted Sheelah to come out here, for that
would mean it was ten o'clock; she always
came at ten. He wanted it to be noon, to
be afternoon, to be night I The most beau-
tiful time in his rather monotonous little life
was down there at the foot of the day, and
he was creeping towards it on the lagging
hours. He was like a little traveller on a
dreary plain, with the first ecstatic glimpse
of a hill ahead.

Murray in his childish way had been in
love a long time, but he had never got very
near his dear lady. He had watched her a
little way off and wondered at the gracious
beauty of her, and loved her eyes and her
lips and her soft, gold-colored hair. He had
never — oh, never — been near enough to be
unlaced and unbuttoned and put to bed by
the lady that he loved. She had come in
sometimes in a wondrous dress to say good-
9 115

The Very Small Person

night, but often, stopping at the mirror on
the way across to him, she had seen a beau-
tiful vision and forgotten to say it. And
Murray had not wondered, for he had seen
the vision, too.

"Your mamma's gone away, hasn't she?
I saw her."

Daisy was still there! Murray pulled him-
self out of his dreaming, to be polite.

"Yes; but she's coming back to-night.
She promised."

"S 'posing the cars run off the track so she
can't?" Daisy said, cheerfully.

"She'll come," Murray rejoined, with the
decision of faith. "She promised, I said."

"S 'posing she's killed 'most dead?"

"She'll come."

' ' Puffickly dead — s 'posing ? ' '

Murray took time, but even here his faith
in the Promise stood its ground, though the
ground shook under it. Sheelah had taught
him what a promise was; it was something
not to be shaken or killed even in a railroad
wreck.

"When anybody promises, they do it," he
116

"MURRAY HAD . . . SEEN THE VISION, TOO"

The Promise

said, sturdily. "She promised an' she'll
come."

"Then her angel will have to come," re-
marked the older, girl child, coolly, with
awful use of the indicative mood.

When the half -hour was over and Murray
at liberty, he went in to the clock and stood
before it with hands a-pocket and wide-
spread legs. A great yearning was upon
him to know the mystery of telling time.
He wished — oh, how he wished he had let
Sheelah teach him! Then he could have
stood here making little addition sums and
finding out just how long it would be till
night. Or he could go away and keep com-
ing back here to make little subtraction
sums, to find out how much time was left
now — and now — and now. It was dreadful
to just stand and wonder things.

Once he went up-stairs to his own little
room out of the nursery and sat down where
he had always sat when Sheelah unlaced
him, before he had begun to unlace himself,
and stood up where he had always stood
when Sheelah unbuttoned him. He sat very
117

The Very Small Person

still and stood very still, his grave little face
intent with imagining. He was imagining
how it would be when she did it. She would
be right here, close — if he dared, he could
put out his hand and smooth her. If he
dared, he could take the pins out of her soft
hair, and hide in it —

He meant to dare!

"Little silly," perhaps she would call him;
perhaps she would remember to kiss him
good-night. And afterwards, when the lark
was over, it would stay on, singing in his
heart. And he would lie in the dark and
love Her.

For Her part, it was a busy day enough
and did not lag. She did her shopping and
called on a town friend or two. In the late
afternoon she ran in to several art-stores
where pictures were on exhibition. It was
at the last of these places that she chanced
to meet a woman who was a neighbor of
hers in the suburbs.

"Why, Mrs. Cody!" the neighbor cried.
"How delightful! You've come in to see
Irving, too?"

118

The Promise

"No," with distinct regret answered Mur-
ray's mother, "but I wish I had! I'm only
in for a little shopping."

"Not going to stay! Why, it will be
wicked to go back to-night — unless, of course,
you've seen him in Robespierre."

"I haven't. Cicely Howe has been teas-
ing me to stop over and go with her. It's
a 'sure-enough' temptation, as Fred says.
Fred's away, so that part's all right. Of
course there's Murray, but there's also Shee-
lah — " She was talking more to herself
now than to the neighbor. The tempta-
tion had taken a sudden and striking hold
upon her. It was the chance of a lifetime.
She really ought —

"I guess you'll stop over!" laughed the
neighbor. " I know the signs. "

"I'll telephone to Sheelah," Murray's
mother decided, aloud, "then I'll run along
back to Cicely's. I've always wanted to see
Irving in that play."

But it was seven o'clock before she tele-
phoned. She was to have been at home at
half -past seven.

119

The Very Small Person

"That you, Sheelah? I'm not coming
out to-night — not until morning. I'm going
to the theatre. Tell Murray I'll bring him a
present. Put an extra blanket over him if
it comes up chilly."

She did not hang up the receiver at once,
holding it absently at her ear while she con-
sidered if she ought to say anything else to
Sheelah. Hence she heard distinctly an in-
dignant exclamation.

"Will you hear that, now! An' the boy
that certain! 'She's promised,' he says, an'
he'll kape on 'She's-promising' for all o' me,
for it's not tell him I will! He can go to
slape in his poor little boots, expectin' her
to kape her promise!"

The woman with the receiver at her ear
uttered a low exclamation. She had not
forgotten the Promise, but it had not im-
pressed her as anything vital. She had given
it merely to comfort Little Silly when he
cried. That he would regard it as sacred —
that it was sacred — came to her now with
the forcible impact of a blow. And, oddly
enough, close upon its heels came a remem-
120

The Promise

brance picture — of a tiny child playing with
his soldiers on the floor. The sunlight lay
over him — she could see it on his little hair
and face. She could hear him talking to the
"Captain soldier." She had at the time
called it a sermon, with a text, and laughed
at the child who preached it. She was not
laughing now.

"Lissen, Cappen Sojer, an' I'll teach you
a p'omise. A p'omise — a p'omise — why,
when anybody p'omises, they do it!"

Queer how plainly she could hear Little
Silly say that and could see him sitting in
the sun! Just the little white dress he had
on — tucks in it and a dainty edging of lace!
She had recognized Sheelah's maxims and
laughed. Sheelah was stuffing the child with
notions.

"If anybody p'omises, they do it." It
seemed to come to her over the wire in a
baby's voice and to strike against her heart.
This mother of a little son stood suddenly
self -convicted of a crime — the crime of faith-
lessness. It was not, she realized with a
sharp stab of pain, faith in her the little

121

The Very Small Person

child at the other end of the line was exer-
cising, but faith in the Promise. He would
keep on "She-promising" till he fell asleep
in his poor little boots —

"Oh!" breathed in acute distress the
mother of a little son. For all unexpectedly,
suddenly, her house built of cards of careless-
ness, flippancy, thoughtlessness, had fallen
round her. She struggled among the flimsy
ruins.

Then came a panic of hurry. She must
go home at once, without a moment's delay.
A little son was waiting for her to come and
put him to bed. She had promised ; he was
waiting. They were to have a regular little
lark — that she remembered, too, with dis-
tinctness. She was almost as uncertain as
Murray had been of the meaning of a " lark ";
she had used the word, as she had used so
many other words to the child, heedlessly.
She had even an odd, uncertain little feeling
as to what it meant to put a little son to bed,
for she had never unlaced or unbuttoned
one. She had never wanted to until now.
But now — she could hardly wait to get home

122

The Promise

to do it. Little Silly was growing up — the
bare brown space between the puffs of his
little trousers and the top rims of his little
socks were widening. She must hurry,
hurry! What if he grew up before she got
there! What if she never had a chance to
put a little son to bedi She had lost so
many chances; this one that was left had
suddenly sprung into prominence and im-
mense value. With the shock of her awak-
ening upon her she felt like one partially
paralyzed, but with the need upon her to
rise and walk — to run.

She started at once, scarcely allowing her-
self time to explain to her friend. She would
listen to no urgings at all.

"I've got to go, Cicely — I've promised my
little son," was all she took time to say; and
the friend, knowing of the telephone message,
supposed it had been a telephone promise.

At the station they told her there was an-
other train at seven-thirty, and she walked
about uneasily until it came. Walking about
seemed to hurry it along the rails to her.

Another woman waited and walked with
123

The Very Small Person

her. Another mother of little sons, she de-
cided whimsically, reading it in the sweet,
quiet face. The other woman was in widow's
black, and she thought how merciful it was
that there should be a little son left her.
She yielded to an inclination to speak.

"The train is late," she said. "It must
be."

"No." The other woman glanced back-
ward at the station clock. "It's we who are
early."

"And in a hurry," laughed Murray's
mother, in the relief of speech. "I've got
to get home to put my little son to bed!
I don't suppose you are going home for
that?"

The sweet face for an instant lost its quiet-
ness. Something like a spasm of mortal
pain crossed it and twisted it. The woman
walked away abruptly, but came back.
"I've been home and — put him to bed," she
said, slowly — "in his last little bed."

Then Murray's mother found herself hurry-
ing feverishly into a car, her face feeling wet
and queer. She was crying.
124

The Promise

"Oh, the poor woman!" she thought, "the
poor woman! And I'm going home to a
little live one. I can cover him up and tuck
him in ! I can kiss his little, solemn face and
his little, brown knees. Why haven't I ever
kissed his knees before? If I could only
hurry! Will this car ever start?" She put
her head out of the window. An oily per-
sonage in jumpers was passing.

"Why don't we start?" she said.

"Hot box," the oily person replied, lacon-
ically.

The delay was considerable to a mother
going home to put her little child to bed.
It seemed to this mother interminable.
When at length she felt a welcome jar and
lurch her patience was threadbare. She sat
bolt upright, as if by so doing she were help-
ing things along.

It was an express and leaped ahead splen-
didly, catching up with itself. Her thoughts
leaped ahead with it. No, no, he would not
be in bed. Sheelah was not going to tell
him, so he would insist upon waiting up.
But she might find him asleep in his poor
I25

The Very Small Person

little boots! She caught her breath in half
a sob, half tender laugh. Little Silly!

But if an express, why this stop? They
were slowing up. It was not time to get to
the home station; there were no lights.
Murray's mother waylaid a passing brake-
man.

"What is it? What is it?"

"All right, all right! Don't be scairt,
lady! Wreck ahead somewheres — freight-
train. We got to wait till they clear the
track."

But the misery of waiting! He might get
tired of waiting, or Sheelah might tell him
his mother was not coming out to-night ; he
might go to bed, with his poor little faith in
the Promise wrecked, like the freight on there
in the dark. She could not sit still and bear
the thought; it was not much easier pacing
the aisle. She felt a wild inclination to get
off the train and walk home.

At the home station, when at last she
reached it, she took a carriage. "Drive
fast!" she said, peremptorily. "I'll pay you
double fare."

126

The Promise

The houses they rattled past were ablaze
with light down-stairs, not up-stairs where
little sons would be going to bed. All the
little sons had gone to bed.

They stopped with a terrific lurch. It
threw her onto the seat ahead.

"This is not the place!" she cried, sharply,
after a glance without.

"No'm; we're stopping fer recreation,"
drawled sarcastically the unseen driver. He
appeared to be assisting the horse to lie
down. She stumbled to the ground and
demanded things.

"Yer'll have to ax this here four-legged
party what's doin'. / didn't stop — I kep'
right on goin'. He laid down on his job,
that's all, marm. I'll get him up, come
Chris 'mas. Now then, yer ole fool!"

There was no patience left in the "fare"
standing there beside the plunging beast.
She fumbled in her purse, found something,
dropped it somewhere, and hurried away
down the street. She did not walk home,
because she ran. It was well the streets
were quiet ones.

127

The Very Small Person

"Has he gone to bed?" she came panting
in upon drowsy Sheelah, startling that phleg-
matic person out of an honest Irish dream.

"Murray — Little Silly — has he gone to
bed? Oh no!" for she saw him then, an
inert little heap at Sheelah 's feet. She gath-
ered him up in her arms.

"I won't! I won't go, Sheelah! I'm
waiting. She promis — " in drowsy murmur.

"She's here — she's come, Murray! Mam-
ma's come home to put you to bed — Little
Silly, open your eyes and see mamma!"

And he opened them and saw the love in
her eyes before he saw her. Sleep took
instant wings. He sprang up.

"I knew you'd come! I told Sheelah!
When anybody promises, they — Come on
quick up-stairs! I can unlace myself, but
I'd rather—"

"Yes, yes!" she sobbed.

"And we'll have a lark, won't we? You
said a lark; but not the reg'larest kind — I
don't suppose we could have the reg'larest
kind?"

"Yes— yes!"

128

The Promise

"Oh! — why!" His eyes shone. He put
up his hand, then drew it shyly back. If she
would only take out the pins herself — if he
only dared to —

' ' What is it, Little Silly— darling ?" They
were up in his room. She had her cheek
against his little, bare, brown knees. It
brought her soft, gold-colored hair so near —
if he only dared —

"What is it you'd like, little son?" And
he took courage. She had never called him
Little Son before. It made him brave
enough.

" I thought — the reg'larest kind — your hair
—if you'd let it tumble all down, I'd — hide
in it," he breathed, his knees against her
cheek trembling like little frightened things.

It fell about him in a soft shower and he
hid in it and laughed. Sheelah heard them
laughing together.

CHAPTER IX

The Little Lover

The Little Lover

WISH I knew for very cer-
tain," the Little Lover mur-
mured, wistfully. The lico-
rice-stick was so shiny and
black, and he had laid his
tongue on it one sweet in-
stant, so he knew just how good it tasted.
If he only knew for very certain — of course
there was a chance that She did not love
licorice sticks. It would be a regular pity
to waste it. Still, how could anybody not
love 'em —

"'Course She does!" exclaimed the Little
Lover, with sudden conviction, and the
struggle was ended. It had only been a
question of Her liking or not liking. That
decided, there was no further hesitation.

The Very Small Person

He held up the licorice-stick and traced a
wavery little line round it with his finger-
nail. The line was pretty near one of its
ends — the end towards the Little Lover's
mouth.

"I'll suck as far down as that, just 'xactly,"
he said ; "then I'll put it away in the Treasury
Box."

He sat down in his little rocker and gave
himself up to the moment's bliss, first apply-
ing his lips with careful exactitude to the
dividing-line between Her licorice stick and
his.

The moment of bliss ended, the Little
Lover got out the Treasury Box and added
the moist, shortened licorice - stick to the
other treasures in it. There were many of
them, — an odd assortment that would have
made any one else smile. But the Little
Lover was not smiling. His small face was
grave first, then illumined with the light of
willing sacrifice. The treasures were all so
beautiful! She would be so pleased, — my,
my, how pleased She would be! Of course
She would like the big golden alley the best,

The Little Lover

— the very best. But the singing-top was
only a tiny little way behind in its power to
charm. Perhaps She had never seen a sing-
ing-top— think o' that! Perhaps She had
never had a great golden alley, or a cork-
screw jack-knife, or a canary-bird whistle,
or a red and white "Kandy Kiss," — or a
licorice-stick! Think o' that — think o' how
pleased She would be!

"'Course She will," laughed the Little
Lover in his delight. If he only dared to
give Her the Treasury Box! If he only knew
how! If there was somebody he could ask,
— but the housekeeper was too old, and
Uncle Larry would laugh. There was no-
body.

The waiting wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't
for the red-cheeked pear in the Treasury Box,
and the softest apple. They made it a little
dang'rous to wait.

It had not been very long that he had
loved Her. The first Sunday that She smiled
at him across the aisle was the beginning.
He had not gone to sleep that Sunday, nor
since, on any of the smiling Sundays. He

The Very Small Person

had not wanted to. It had been rest enough
to sit and watch Her from the safe shelter of
the housekeeper's silken cloak. Her clear,
fresh profile, Her pretty hair, Her ear, Her
throat — he liked to watch them all. It was
rest enough, — as if, after that, he could have
gone to sleep!

She was very tall, but he liked her better
for that. He meant to be tall some day.
Just now he did not reach — But he did not
wish to think of that. It troubled him to
remember that Sunday that he had measured
himself secretly beside Her, as the people
walked out of church. It made him blush
to think how very little way he had "reach-
ed." He had never told any one, but then
he never told any one anything. Not having
any mother, and your father being away all
the time, and the housekeeper being old, and
your uncle Larry always laughing, made it
diff'rent 'bout telling things. Of course if
you had 'em — mothers, and fathers that
stayed at home, and uncles that didn't laugh,
— but you didn't. So you 'cided it was bet-
ter not to tell things.

136

The Little Lover

One Sunday the Little Lover thought he
detected Uncle Larry watching Her too.
But he was never quite certain sure. Any-
way, when She had turned Her beautiful
head and smiled across the aisle, it had been
at him. The Little Lover was "certain
sure" of that! In his shy little way he
had smiled back at Her and nodded. The
warmth had kept on in his heart all day.
That was the day before he found out the
Important Thing.

Out in the front hall after supper he came
upon a beautiful, tantalizing smell that he
failed for some time to locate. He went
about with his little nose up-tilted, in a per-
sistent search. It was such a beautiful
smell ! — not powerful and oversweet, but faint
and wonderful. The little nose searched
on patiently till it found it. There was a
long box on the hall-table and the beautiful
smell came out under the lid and met the
little, up-tilted nose half-way.

"I've found it! It's inside o' that box!"
the Little Lover cried in triumph. "Now I
guess I better see what it looks like. Oh!

The Very Small Person

why, it's posies!" For there, in moist tissue
wrappings, lay a cluster of marvellous pale
roses, breathing out their subtle sweetness
into the little face above them.

"Why, I didn't know that was the way a
beautiful smell looked! I — it's very nice,
isn't it? If it's Uncle Larry's, I'm goin' to
ask him — Oh, Uncle Larry, can I have it ?
Can I ? I want to put it in Her — " But he
caught himself up before he got quite to
"Treasury Box." He could not tell Uncle
Larry about that.

The tall figure coming down the hall
quickened its steps to a leap towards the
opened box on the table. Uncle Larry's face
was flushed, but he laughed — he always
laughed.

"You little 'thafe o' the wurruld'!" he
called out. "What are you doing with my
roses?"

"I want 'em — please," persisted the child,
eagerly, thinking of the Treasury Box and
Her. "

"Oh, you do, do you? But they're not
for the likes o' you."

138

The Little Lover

Sudden inspiration came to the Little
Lover. If this was a Treasury Box, — if he
were right on the edge of finding out how
you gave one —

"Is — is it for a She?" he asked, breathless
with interest.

"A— 'She'?" laughed Uncle Larry, but
something as faint and tender as the beauti-
ful smell was creeping into his face. "Yes,
it is for a She, Reggie, — the most beautiful
She in the world," he added, gently. He
was wrapping the beautiful smell again in
the tissue wrappings.

Then it was a Treasury Box. Then you
did the treasures up that way, in thin, rattly
paper like that. Then what did you do?
But he would find out.

"Oh, I didn't know," he murmured. "I
didn't know that was the way! Do you send
it by the 'spressman, then, Uncle Larry,—
to — to Her, you know ? With Her name on ?"

Uncle Larry was getting into his overcoat.
He laughed. The tender light that had been
for an instant in his face he had put away
again out of sight.

139

The Very Small Person

"No; I'm my own "spressman. ' You've
got some things to learn, Reg, before you
grow up."

"I'd rawer learn 'em now. Tell me 'em!
Tell what you do then."

The old mocking light was back in Uncle
Larry's eyes. This small chap with the
earnest little face was good as a play.

' ' ' Then ' ? Then, sure, I go to the door
and ring the bell. Then I kneel on one knee
like this, and hold out the box — "

"The Treasury Box — yes, go on."

" — Like this. And I say, 'Fair One, ac-
cept this humble offering, I beseech thee'—

"Accept this hum-bul offering, I — I be-
seech thee" — the Little Lover was saying it
over and over to himself. It was a little
hard, on account o' the queer words in it.
He was still saying it after Uncle Larry had
gone. His small round face was intent and
serious. When he had learned the words, he
practised getting down on one knee and
holding out an imaginary Treasury Box.
That was easier than the queer words, but it
made you feel funnier somewhere in your
140

The Little Lover

inside. You wanted to cry, and you were
a little afraid somebody else would want to
laugh.

The next afternoon the Little Lover car-
ried his Treasury Box to Her. He had
wrapped all the little treasures carefully in
tissue like Uncle Larry's roses. But there
was no beautiful smell creeping out; — there
was something a little like a smell, but not
a beautiful one. The Little Lover felt sorry
for that.

She came to the door. It was a little dis-
composing on account of there being so little
time to get your breath in. I-It made you
feel funny.

But the Little Lover acted well his part.
With a little gasp that was like a sob he sank
on one knee and held up the Treasury Box
to Her.

"Fair One," he quivered, softly, "ac-
cept this] — this offspring — no, I mean this
hum - bul offspring, I — I — oh, I mean
please!"

She stooped to the level of his little, solemn
face. Then suddenly She lifted him, Treas-
141

The Very Small Person

ury Box and all, and bore him into a great,
bright room.

"Why, Reggie! — you are Reggie, aren't
you? You're the little boy that smiles at
me across the aisle in church ? I thought so !
Well, I am so glad you have come to see me.
And to think you have brought me a present,
too—"

"I be -seech thee!" quivered the Little
Lover, suddenly remembering the queer
words that had eluded him before. He drew
a long, happy breath. It was over now.
She had the Treasury Box in her hand. She
would open it by-and-by and find the golden
alley and the singing-top and the licorice-
stick. He wished he dared tell Her to open
it soon on account o' the softest apple and
the red -cheeked pear. Perhaps he would
dare to after a little while. It was so much
easier, so far, than he had expected.

She talked to him in Her beautiful, low-
toned voice, and by-and-by She sat down to
the piano and sang to him. That was the
ve-ry best. He curled up on the sofa and
listened, watching Her clear profile and Her
142

The Little Lover

hair and Her pretty moving fingers, in his
Little Lover way. She looked so beautiful!
— it made you want to put your cheek
against Her sleeve and rub it very softly
back and forth, back and forth, over and
over again. If you only dared to!

So he was very happy until he smelled
the beautiful smell again. All at once it
crept to him across the room. He recog-
nized it instantly as the same one that had
crept out from under the lid of Uncle Larry's
box. It was there, in the great, bright room!
He slid to his feet and went about tracing it
with his little up -tilted nose. It led him
across to Her, and then he saw Uncle Larry's
roses on Her breast. He uttered the softest
little cry of pain — so soft She did not hear it
in Her song — -and crept back to his seat.
He had had his first wound. He was only
six, but at six it hurts.

It was Uncle Larry's roses She wore on
Her dress — then it was roses She liked, not
licorice - sticks and golden alleys. Then it
was Uncle Larry's roses, — then She must like
Uncle Larry. Then — oh, then, She would
143

The Very Small Person

never like himl Perhaps it was Uncle Larry
She had smiled at all the time, across the
aisle. Uncle Larry "reached" so far! He
wouldn't have to grow.

"She b 'longs to Uncle Larry, an' I wanted
Her to b'long to me. Nobody else does — I
wouldn't have needed anybody else to, if
She had. All I needed to b'long was Her.
I wanted Her! I — I love Her. She isn't
Uncle Larry's — she's mine! — She's mine!"
The thoughts of the Little Lover surged on
turbulently, while the beautiful low song
went on. She was singing — She was singing
to Uncle Larry. The song wasn't sweet and
soft and tender for him. It was sweet and
soft and tender for Uncle Larry.

"I hate Uncle Larry!" cried out the Little
Lover, but She did not hear. She was lost
in the tender depths of the song. It was
very late in the afternoon and a still dark-
ness was creeping into the big, bright room.
The Little Lover nestled among the cushions
of the sofa, spent with excitement and loss,
and that new, dread feeling that made him
hate Uncle Larry. He did not know its
144

The Little Lover

name, and it was better so. But he knew
the pain of it.

' ' Why, Reggie ! Why, you poor little man,
you're asleep! And I have been sitting there
singing all this time! And it grew quite
dark, didn't it? Oh, poor little man, poor
little man, I had forgotten you were here!
I'm glad you can't hear me say it!"

Yes, it was better. But he would have
liked to feel Her cool cheek against his
cheek; he would have felt a little relief in
his desolate, bitter heart if he could see
how gentle Her face was and the beautiful
look there was in Her soft eyes. But per-
haps— if She was not looking at him — if it
was 'at Uncle Larry — No, no, Little Lov-
er; it is better to sleep on and not to
know.

It was Uncle Larry who carried him home,
asleep still, and laid him gently on his own
little bed. Uncle Larry's bearded face was
shining in the dark room like a star. The
tumult of joy in the man's heart clamored
for utterance. Uncle Larry felt the need of
telling some one. So, because he could not
US

The Very Small Person

help it, he leaned down and shook the Little
Lover gently.

"You little foolish chap, do you know
what you have lost? You were right there
— you might have heard Her when She said
it! You might have peeped between your
fingers and seen Her face — angels in Heaven!
Her face! — with the love-light in it. You
poor little chap! you poor little chap! You
were right there all the time and you didn't
know. And you don't know now when I
tell you I'm the happiest man alive! You
lie there like a little log. Well, sleep away,
little chap. What does it matter to you?"

It was the Little Lover's own guardian-
angel who kept him from waking up, but
Uncle Larry did not know. He took off the
small, dusty shoes and loosened the little
clothes, with a strange new tenderness in his
big fingers. The familiar little figure seemed
to have put on a certain sacredness for hav-
ing lain on Her cushions and been touched
by Her hands. And She had kissed the
little chap. Uncle Larry stooped and found
the place with his lips.
146

The Little Lover

The visit seemed like a dream to the Little
Lover, next morning. How could it have
been real when he could not remember com-
ing home at all ? He hadn't come home, — so
of course he had never gone. It was a dream,
— still — where was the Treasury Box ?

" I wish I knew for very certain," the Little
Lover mused. "I could ask Uncle Larry,
but I hate Uncle Larry—" Oh! Then it
wasn't a dream. It was true. It all came
back. The Little Lover remembered why
he hated Uncle Larry. He remembered it
all. Lying there in his little bed he smelled
the beautiful smell again and followed it up
to the roses on Her dress. They were Uncle
Larry's roses, so he hated Uncle Larry. He
always would. He did not hate Her, but
he would never go to see Her again. He
would never nod or smile at Her again in
church. He would never be happy again.

Perhaps She would send back the Treasury
Box; — the Little Lover had heard once that
people sent back things when it was all over.
It was all over now. He was only six, but
the pain in his heart was so big that he did

11 147

The Very Small Person

not think to wish She would send back the
Treasury Box soon, on account of the softest
apple.

The days went by until they made a
month, — two months, — half a year. The
pain in the Little Lover's heart softened to
a dreary loneliness, but that stayed on. He
had always been a lonely little chap, but
not like this. He had never had a moth-
er, and his father had nearly always been
away. But this was different. Now he
had nobody to love, and he hated Uncle
Larry.

That was before the Wonderful Thing
happened. One day Uncle Larry brought
Her home. He said She was his wife. That
was the Wonderful Thing.

The Little Lover ran away and hid. They
could not find him for a long time. It was
She who found him.

"Why, Reggie! Why, poor little man!
Look up. What is it, dear? Reggie, you
are crying!"

He did not care. He wanted to cry. But
he let Her take him into Her arms.
148

The Little Lover

11 1 wanted to do it!" he sobbed, desolate-
ly, his secret out at last.

" Do it ? Do what, Reggie ?"

"M-marry you. / was goin' to do it.
H-He hadn't any right to! I hate him — I
hate him!"

A minute there was silence, except for
the soft creak of Her dress as She rocked
him. Then She lifted his wet little face to
Hers.

"Reggie," She whispered, "how would a
mother do?"

He nestled his cheek against Her sleeve
and rubbed it back and forth, back and
forth, while he thought. A mother — then
there would be no more loneliness. Then
there would be a place to cuddle in, and
somebody to tell things to. "I'd rawer a
mother," the Little Lover said.

CHAPTER X

The Child

The Child

[HE Child had it all reasoned
out in her own way. It was
only lately she had got to
the end of her reasoning and
settled down. At first it
had not been very satisfac-
tory, but she had gradually, with a child's
optimism, evolved from the dreary little
maze a certain degree of content.

She had only one confidant. The Child
had always lived a rather proscribed, un-
eventful little life, with pitifully few inti-
mates,— none of her own age. The Child
was eight.

The confidant, oddly, was a picture in the
silent, awe-inspiring company-room. It rep-
resented a lady with a beautiful face, and

The Very Small Person

a baby in her arms. The Child had never
heard it called a Madonna, but it was be-
cause of that picture that she was never
afraid in the company-room. Going in and
out so often to confide things to the Lady
had bred a familiarity with the silent place
that came to amount in the end to friendli-
ness. The Lady was always there, smiling
gently at the Child, and so the other things
did not matter — the silence and the awe-
inspiringness.

The Child told the Lady everything,
standing down under the picture and looking
up at it adoringly. She was explaining her
conclusions concerning the Greatest Thing
of All now.

"I didn't tell you before," she said. "I
wanted to get it reasoned out. If," rather
wistfully, "you were a — a flesh-and-bloody
lady, you could tell me if I haven't got it
right. But I think I have.

"You see, there are a great many kinds of
fathers and mothers, but I'm only talking of
my kind. I'm going to love my father one
day and my mother the next. Like this:

The Child

my mother Monday, my father Tuesday,
mother Wednesday, father Thursday — right
along. Of course you can't divide seven
days even, but I'm going to love them both
on Sundays. Just one day in the week I
don't think it will do any harm, do you? —
Oh, you darling Lady, I wish you could
shake your head or bow it! I'm only eight,
you see, and eight isn't a very reasonable
age. But I couldn't think of any better
way."

The Child's eyes riveted to the beautiful
face almost saw it nod a little.

"I haven't decided 'xactly, but perhaps
I shall love my mother Sunday mornings
and my father Sunday afternoons. If — if it
seems best to. I'll let you know." She
stopped talking and thought a minute in her
serious little way. She was considering
whether to say the next thing or not. Even
to the Lady she had never said why-things
about her father and mother. If the Lady
knew — and she had lived so long in the com-
pany-room, it seemed as if she must, — then
there was no need of explaining. And if she
'55

The Very Small Person

didn't know — suddenly the Child, with a
throb of pride, hoped that the Lady did not
know. But perhaps some slight explanation
was necessary.

"Of course," the Child burst out, hurriedly,
her cheeks aflame, — "of course it would be
nice to love both of 'em the same day, but — •
but they're not that kind of a father and
mother. I've thought it all over and made
the reasonablest plan I know how to. I'm
going to begin to-morrow — to-morrow is
Tuesday, my father's day."

It was cold in the company-room, and any
moment Marie might come and take her
away. She was always a little pressed for
time.

"I must be going," she said, "or Marie
will come. Good-bye. Give my love to the
baby. ' ' She always sent her love to the baby
in the beautiful Lady's arms.

The Child's home, though luxurious, had
to her the effect of being a double tene-
ment. An invisible partition divided her
father's side from her mother's ; her own lit-
tle white room, with Marie's alcove, seemed
156

The Child

to be across the dividing-line, part on one
side, part on the other. She could remem-
ber when there had not been any invisible
partition, but the intensity of her little men-
tal life since there had been one had dimmed
the beautiful remembrance. It seemed to
her now as a pleasant dream that she longed
to dream again.

The next day the Child loved her father,
for it was Tuesday. She went about it in
her thorough, conscientious little way. She
had made out a little programme. At the
top of the sheet, in her clear, upright hand,
was, ' ' Ways to Love My farther. ' ' And after
that:

" i. Bringing in his newspaper.

"2. Kissing Him goodmorning.

"3. Rangeing his studdy table.

"4. Putting flours on "

"5. Takeing up His male.

" 6. Reeching up to rub My cheak against
his cheak.

"7. Lerning to read so I can read His
Books."

There were many other items. The Child
»S7

The Very Small Person

had used three pages for her programme.
The last two lines read:

"Praing for Him.

"Kissing Him goodnight."

The Wednesday programme was almost
identical with this one, with the exception
of "my mother" instead of "my farther."
For the Child did not wish to be partial.
She had always had a secret notion that it
would be a little easier to read her mother's
books, but she meant to read just as many
of her "farther's."

During the morning she went in to the
Lady and reported progress so far. Her
cheeks were a delicate pink with excitement,
and she panted a little when she spoke.

"I'm getting along splendidly," she said,
smiling up at the beautiful face. "Perhaps
— of course I can't tell for sure, but I'm not
certain but that he will like it after he gets
used to it. You have to get used to things.
He liked the flowers, and when I rubbed my
cheek 'gainst his, and when I kissed him.
How I know he did is because he smiled — I
wish my father would smile all the time."
158

The Child

The Child did not leave the room when she
had finished her report, but fidgeted about the
great silent place uncertainly. She turned
back by-and-by to the Lady.

"There's something I wish you could tell
me," she said, with her wistful little face up-
lifted. "It's if you think it would be polite
to ask my father to put me to bed instead of
Marie — just unbutton me, you know, and
pray me. I was going to ask my mother
to-morrow night if my father did to-night.
I thought — I thought" — the Child hesitated
for adequate words — "it would be the loving-
est way to love him, for you feel a little
intimater with persons when they put you
to bed. Sometimes I feel that way with
Marie — a very little. I wish you could nod
your head if you thought it would be
polite.

The Child's eyes, fastened upon the picture,
were intently serious. And again the Lady
seemed to nod.

"Oh, you're nodding, yes! — I b'lieve you're
nodding yes! Thank you ve-ry much — now
I shall ask him to. Good-bye. Give my love

The Very Small Person

to the baby." And the little figure moved
away sedately.

To ask him in the manner of a formal
invitation with "yours very truly" in it ap-
peared to the Child upon thoughtful delibera-
tion to be the best way. She did not feel
very intimate yet with her father, but of
course it might be different after he unbut-
toned her and prayed her.

Hence the formal invitation:

" Dear farther you are respectably invited to put
yore little girl to bed tonite at $ past 7. Yores
very truely Elizabeth.

" R s vp.

" P.s. the little girl is me."

It was all original except the "R s v p"
and the fraction. The Child had asked
Marie how to write "half," and the other
she had found in the corner of one of her
mother's formal invitations. She did not
know what the four letters meant, but they
made the invitation look nicer, and she could
make lovely capital "R's."

At lunch-time the Child stole up-stairs and
deposited her little folded note on top of her
160

ELIZABETH

The Child

father's manuscript. Her heart beat strange-
ly fast as she did it. She had still a lurking
fear that it might not be polite.

On the way back she hurried into the com-
pany-room, up to the Lady. "I've done it!"
she reported, breathlessly. "I hope it was
polite — oh, I hope he will!"

The Child's father ate his lunch silently
and a little hastily, as if to get it over. On
the opposite side of the table the Child's
mother ate hers silently and a little hastily.
It was the usual way of their meals. The
few casual things they said had to do with
the weather or the salad. Then it was over
and they separated, each to his own side of
the divided house.

The father took up his pen to write — it
seemed all there was left to do now. But
the tiny folded note arrested his hand, and
he stared in amazement. The Child had in-
advertently set her seal upon it in the form
of a little finger-print. So he knew it was
hers. The first shock of hope it had awak-
ened subsided into mere curiosity. But when
he opened it, when he read it —
161

The Very Small Person

He sat a long time very still indeed — so
still he could hear the rustle of manuscript
pages in the other writing-room across the
hall. Perhaps he sat there nearly all the
afternoon, for the shadows lengthened before
he seemed to move.

In the rush of thoughts that came to him
two stood out most clearly — the memory of
an awful day, when he had seemed to die a
thousand deaths, and only come to life when
a white-capped nurse came smiling to him
and said, " It is a little girl," and the memory
of a day two years ago, when a man and a
woman had faced each other and said, "We
will try to bear it for the child."

The Child found her answer lying on her
plate at nursery tea. Marie, who was bus-
tling about the room getting things orderly
for the night, heard a little gasp and turned
in alarm. The Child was spelling out her
letter with a radiant face that belied the
gasp. There was something in the lonely
little figure's eagerness that appealed even to
the unemotional maid, and for a moment
there was likelihood of a strange thing hap-
162

The Child

pening. But the crisis was quickly over,
and Marie, with the kiss unkissed on her
lips, went on with her work. Emotions were
rare with Marie.

'"Dear Little Girl, Who Is You,'" spelled
the Child, in a soft ecstasy, yet not without
dread of what might come, supposing he
thought she had been impo —

" ' Dear Little Girl, Who Is You,'" she hur-
riedly began again, "'your farther will be
happy to accept your kind invitation for YZ
past 7 this evening. Will you please call for
him, as he is a little — b-a-s-h-f-u-l' — Marie,
what does b-a-s-h-f-u-l spell?" shrilled the
eager voice. It was a new word.

Marie came over to the Child's chair.
"How can I tell without I see it?" she said.
But the Child drew away gently.

"This is a very intimate letter — you'll
have to 'xcuse seeing it. Never mind, any-
way, thank you, — I can guess it." And she
guessed that it spelled the way she would
feel when she called for her father at half-
past seven, for the Child was a little bashful,
too. She told the Lady so.

" 163

The Very Small Person

" I don't dread it; I just wish it was over,"
she explained. "It makes me feel a little
queer, you see. Probably you wouldn't feel
that way if you was better acquainted with
a person. Fathers and mothers are kind of
strangers."

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

"Truly, is it?" the Child questioned, anx-
iously. "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 some-
body else going to put me to bed to-night.
You needn't wait, Marie," she said, her voice
164

The Child

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 exult-
ing at its freedom.

"You never unbuttoned a little girl before,
did you ? I'll have to learn you."

"Teach you," he corrected, gently.
165

The Very Small Person

"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. "Ma-
rie lets me kneel to her — " hesitating ques-
tioningly. 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.
166

The Child

"Now I lame me down to sleep — no, I
want to say another one to-night, Lord God,
if Thee please. This is a very particular
night, because my father is in it. Bless my
father, Lord God, 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 hap-
pily, 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
167

The Very Small Person

succession. Marie found her perfunctory ser-
vices 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 some-
times 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 side-
wise on the supporting knees, and the Child
was asleep.

There was a slight stir in the doorway.

"'Sh! 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! —
168

The Child

'Sh! Now you hold her head and let me sit
down — now put her here in my arms, Rich-
ard."

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.

"/ want her every day, Mary!"

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

"Yes, Polly?"

"We'll change things round, Dick."

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

CHAPTER XI

The Recompense

The Recompense

jHERE 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.
R.ec-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
J73

The Very Small Person

that you could do it sitting down. He sank
back wearily on his cushions 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, beau-
tiful 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
174

The Recompense

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 dread-
ful!"

"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

The Very Small Person

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 ac-
quainted; they were never in the room at
the same time.

Morry's admiration of this small bepatch-
ed, 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
176

The Recompense

of sight, once Jolly was seated. The phe-
nomenon 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
gratitude would embarrass 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.
14 Because there's a word — "

But Jolly had caught up his cap, untele-
scoped 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.

4 Til go hunt, — where 'd I be most likely
to find him?"

The Little White FeUer rarely laughed,

but now — 44 You — you Jolly boy!" he choked,

4 'you'll find him under a hay -stack fast

aslee — No, no!" suddenly grave and so-

177

The Very Small Person

licitous of the other's feelings, "in the dic-
tionary, I mean. Words, don't you know?"

"Oh, get out!" grinned the Jolly boy, in
glee at having made the Little White Feller
laugh out like that, reg'lar-built. "Hand
him over, then, but you'll have to do the
spellin'."

" Rec-om-pense, — p-e-n-s-e," Morry said,
slowly, "I found it in a magazine, — there's
the greatest lot o' words in magazines!
Look up 'rec,' Jolly, — I mean, please."

Dictionaries are terrible books. Jolly had
never dreamed there were so many words
in the world, — pages and pages and pages of
'em! The prospect of ever finding one par-
ticular word 'was disheartening, but he
plunged in sturdily, determination written
on every freckle.

"Don't begin at the first page!" cried
Morry, hastily. "Begin at R, — it's more
than half-way through. R-e, — r-e-c, — that
way."

Jolly turned over endless pages, trailed
laboriously his little, blunt finger up and
down endless columns, wet his lips with the
178

The Recompense

red tip of his tongue endless times, — wished
'twas over. He had meant to begin at the
beginning and keep on till he got to a
w-r-e-c-k, — at Number Seven they spelled it
that way. Hadn't he lost a mark for spell-
ing it without a " w " ? But of course if folks
preferred the r kind —

"Hi!" the blunt finger leaped into space
and waved triumphantly. "R-e-c-k, — I got
him!"

' ' Not ' k, '—there isn't any ' k. ' Go back-
wards till you drop it, Jolly, — you dropped
it?"

Dictionaries are terrible, — still, leaving a
letter off o' the end isn't as bad as off o' the
front. Jolly retraced his steps patiently.

"I've dropped it," he announced in time.

Morry was breathing hard, too. Looking
up words with other people's fore-fingers is
pretty tough.

"Now, the second story, — 'rec' is the
first," he explained. "You must find 'rec-
om' now, you know."

No, Jolly did not know, but he went back
to the work undaunted. "We'll tree him,"

13 179

The Very Small Person

he said, cheerily, "but I think I could do it
easier if I whistled" —

" Whistle, "Morry said.

With more directions, more hard breath-
ing, more wetting of lips and tireless trailing
of small, blunt finger, and then — eureka!
there you were! But eureka was not what
Jolly said.

"Bully for us!" he shouted. He felt
thrilly with pride of conquest. "It's easy
enough finding things. What's the matter
with dictionaries!"

"Now read what it means, Jolly, — I mean,
please. Don't skip."

" ' Rec-om-pense : An equi-va-lent received
or re-turned for anything given, done, or
suff-er-ed ; comp-ens-a-tion. ' '

"That all?— every speck?"

"Well, here's another one that says 'To
make a-mends,' if you like that one any
better. Sounds like praying."

"Oh," sighed Morry, "how I'd like to

know what equi-valent means!" but he did

not ask the other to look it up. He sank

back on his pillows and reasoned things out

1 80

The Recompense

for himself the best way he could. "To
make amends" he felt sure meant to make
up. To make up for something given or
suffered, — perhaps that was what a Rec-om-
pense was. For something given or suffered
— like legs, maybe ? Limp, no-good-legs that
wouldn't go? Could there be a Rec-om-
pense for those f Could anything ever "make
up"?

"Supposing you hadn't any legs, Jolly, — •
that would go?" he said, aloud, with dis-
quieting suddenness. Jolly started, but nod-
ded comprehendingly. He had not had any
legs for a good many minutes; the telescop-
ing process is numbing in the extreme.

"Do you think anything could ever Rec-
om-pense — make up, you know ? Especially
if you suffered? Please don't speak up
quick, — think, Jolly."

"I'm a-thinkin'." Not to have 'em that
would go, — not go! Never to kite after
Dennis O'Toole's ice -wagon an' hang on
behind, — nor see who'd get to the corner
first, — nor stand on your head an' wave
'em —

181

The Very Small Person

"No, sirree!" ejaculated Jolly, with unc-
tion, "nothin'."

"Would ever make up, you mean?" Morry
sighed. He had known all the time, of course
what the answer would be.

' ' Yep,— nothin' could. ' '

" I thought so. That's all, — I mean, thank
you. Oh yes, there's one other thing, — I've
been saving it up. Did you ever hear of a —
of a step-mother, Jolly? I just thought I'd
ask."

The result was surprising. The telescoped
legs came to view jerkily, but with haste.
Jolly stumbled to his feet.

"I better be a-goin'," he muttered, think-
ing of empty chip - baskets, empty water-
pails, undone errands, — a switch on two
nails behind the kitchen door.

"Oh, wait a minute, — did you ever hear
of one, Jolly?"

"You bet," gloomily, "I got one."

"Oh!— oh, I didn't know. Then," rather
timidly, "perhaps — I wish you'd tell me
what they're like."

"Like nothin'! Nobody likes 'em," came
182

The Recompense

with more gloom yet from the boy with
legs.

"Oh!" It was almost a cry from the boy
without. This was terrible. This was a
great deal terribler than he had expected.

"Would one be angry if — if your legs
wouldn't go? Would it make her very, do
you think?"

Still thinking of empty things that ought
to have been filled, Jolly nodded emphatically.

"Oh!" The terror grew.

"Then one — then she — wouldn't be — be
glad to see anybody, I suppose, whose legs
had never been? — wouldn't want to shake
hands or anything, I suppose? — nor be in
the same room?"

"Nope." One's legs may be kind even to
the verge of agony, but how unkind one's
tongue may be! Jolly's mind was busy with
his own anticipated woes; he did not know
he was unkind.

"That's all, — thank you, I mean," came

wearily, hopelessly, from the pillows. But

Morry called the other back before he got

over the threshold. There was another thing

183

The Very Small Person

upon which he craved enlightenment. It
might possibly help out.

"Are they pretty, Jolly?" he asked, wist-
fully.

"Are who what?" repeated the boy on the
threshold, puzzled. Guilt and apprehension
dull one's wits.

' ' Step-ones, — mothers. "

Pretty ? When they were lean and sharp
and shabby! When they kept switches on
two nails behind the door, — when they wore
ugly clothes pinned together! But Jolly's
eye caught the wistfulness on Morry's little,
peaked, white face, and a lie was born within
him at the sight. In a flash he understood
things. Pity came to the front and braced
itself stalwartly.

"You bet they're pretty!" Jolly exclaimed,
with splendid enthusiasm. " Prettier 'n any-
thin'! You'd oughter see mine!" (Record-
ing Angel, make a note of it, when you jot
this down, that the little face across the room
was intense with wistfulness, and Jolly was
looking straight that way. And remember
legs.)

184

The Recompense

When Ellen came in to put Morry to bed
she found wet spots on his cushions, 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 piti-
fully unsatisfactory information Jolly had
given him before understanding had con-
ceived 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 dif-
ferent. 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
185

The Very Small Person

his sanity. She felt his temples and his
wrists and his limp little body. Was he go-
ing 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 some-
thing you'd suffered, — "suffered," that was
what it said. And Morry had suffered — oh,
how! Could it be possible there was any-
thing that would make up for little, limp,
sorrowful legs that had never been ?
186

The Recompense

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 need-
ed 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 cushions, — 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 !

187

The Very Small Person

The step-one a boy would like to have
come home with his father seemed to mate-
rialize 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.
188

The Recompense

"Not — not the one, I s'pose?" It fright-
ened 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 call-
ing 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,
189

The Very Small Person

while you lay in the warm, sweet Rec-om-
pense.

"Will— will it last?" he breathed.

"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 morn-
ing. 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,
190

The Recompense

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 sunshine, and the sun was shin-
ing. 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 cushions 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
191

The Very Small Person

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 cushions, 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
192

The Recompense

still he should find out. Perhaps in a
minute —

"You think he will let me love him, Mor-
ris? 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 won-
deringly 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.

THE END

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