"Who says we're not getting on?" he demanded. "Who says—who says nothing can do any good?"

He grasped the sides of the chair and struggled to his feet. He stood erect like a general, his eyes suddenly lighting up with the fire of inflexible will. Then he was seized with a trembling fit, and sank back in his chair. He rubbed his hands over his gray face; he clenched his fingers, and the knuckle of his thumb went to his eye and got wet in doing it. And it was all so awkward, and so boyish, and so funny, this movement of his fist and the tear-drop on his thumb, that Miss Eastman would have laughed if she had not been crying.

"Who was it, Doctor—who was it that died to-day?"

He told her who it was, and she could not believe him.

"Jim Lehman's child? Not Emma—surely not little Emma Lehman? How is that possible? Such a very short time ago it seems since I was lending her story-books! She couldn't speak English at all when she first came to school."

"You knew her, then?"

"Knew her? She was the only one who cried when I told them I would not teach school any more. She gave me a present once—a woeful, comical Christmas present, a big, clean-washed, smooth potato. That was all she had to give, and she had tied colored strips of tissue paper about it to make it good enough."

Miss Eastman inquired about other children, one by one, as though calling the roll. At first he evaded her questioning, giving such vague and equivocal replies that presently she clearly understood the situation.

"It is epidemic," she said, "and you have been keeping this from me. How long since it began?"

"The worst is over," he answered, with something of the old heartiness that made the sick take courage even in their hour of darkest trial. But he was reluctant to talk much of conditions in Duck Town; and presently, during a lull in the conversation, Miss Eastman laid the pieces of the broken miniature on the table before him.

"Was this David's mother?" she asked.

As the man took up the two parts of the broken portrait he glanced apprehensively toward the top of his desk. The picture which used to stand there was gone.

"Where did you get this?" he questioned.

"As soon as they get into trousers they get into mischief," she replied, and again she asked whether that was a picture of the little boy's mother.

With gentle fingers Dr. Redfield fitted the parts of the picture together, sorrowfully shook his head over them, and then, as a wan smile creased his tired face, he said:—

"David asked me if she was my mother. Has the little rogue been claiming her for his?"

Miss Eastman slowly answered: "She does look a little like—"

"Yes," the doctor interrupted, "more than that, I should say—more than a little like David's mother. From the first time I saw that poor dear woman I thought so, and yet I was never quite sure that my fancy had not created the resemblance. It was an unaccountable likeness, and yet so strong a one that it meant much, very much to me."

"I must take this home again," she said, "for to-morrow David is to bring it back to you. He must tell you all about it—how he got into trouble. We shall come early in the morning, and he will stay here with Mrs. Botz, while I go with you."

"Go with me?" The bushy eyebrows of Dr. Redfield raised with inquiring astonishment.

"You cannot go on forever like this," she replied. "You must let others help. I think I can be rather useful down there in Duck Town. I shall be here early in the morning to go with you."

The Doctor said nothing. He merely clasped the woman's hand in his two hands, and the look in his face was the look of that little boy called David, when somebody has been good to him.



CHAPTER XIII

THE SUBSTITUTE

To Mrs. Wilson, the neighbor who had spent the better part of two hours with David, Miss Eastman was saying, "Must you go?"

Surely it is conclusive proof of superior intelligence in womankind that any of the sex can understand when she is wanted and when she is not wanted, although the idea in either case is conveyed in precisely the same words.

Miss Eastman, for her part, was honestly grateful to Mrs. Wilson for having remained with David during the early part of the evening, but now Mrs. Wilson could go home and come again another day. Miss Eastman did not say that; of course not! What she did say was, "Must you go?"

Mrs. Wilson saw she must. This, however, did not prevent her from apologizing for her departure, and on the door-step still another important subject was to be considered: the kindness of Mrs. Wilson in staying with David. Mrs. Wilson averred that such trifles were not to be spoken of. It was nothing at all. It had been no trouble, indeed it had not; it had been a pleasure. Mrs. Wilson said she believed in being neighborly.

Finally, when the merits of being neighborly had been exhaustively commented upon, the women again made preparation to bid each other good-evening.

"Come over and see us."

"Yes, thank you, I shall."

"Come over any time."

"Yes, I shall, thank you, and you come over. Don't wait for me. I hardly go any place."

Mrs. Wilson was moving her broad and well-intentioned person sidewise down the porch steps, which still shone wet in the broad white light of the moon, already looking serenely out through the changeful interstices of the breaking storm clouds. Miss Eastman watched her safely to the bottom step, but I regret to say that she went into the house even before her neighbor had disappeared down the glistening front walk.

Alone at last! She sighed with relief, and in the darkness of the silent house she stole to the door of David's room that she might listen there with some slight motherly apprehension, and then peep in at the little white figure on the bed, where the moonlight lay asleep.

Behold David, not greatly changed in looks. The cutting away of his curls did not make such a difference in him as Mother had supposed. He was as charming to her; he was as much her own little boy as though no meddlesome hands had even been laid upon him. In size he was quite the same, and, as Mother stood peering in at him, she presently heard a small, far-away voice. In it was the whispered awe of a child who feels the bigness of the night about him and the strangeness of silvery moonbeams on his face.

"Mother!"

The queerness of everything was so very big that the little boy's voice almost got lost in it.

"Yes, David, Mother is here."

"Are you coming to bed?"

"Do you want me to come?"

"I got trouvers," he said. But there was no pride in this announcement; there was a touch of disappointment. For how is it possible to have trouvers and at the same time to call babyishly for your mother?

"Yes, David, you have them." A pause. The little boy was sitting up, with a bare foot held meditatively in his hand. A wee, forlorn figure of a child he was, who seemed to be listening to the silence of the room. And by and by he was asking dispiritedly:—

"You aren't—you aren't afraid, are you, Mother?"

"How can I be afraid when I have a soldier-man to look out for me? Are you afraid?"

No, indeed; David was not afraid. He flopped suddenly back upon the bed, and resolutely turned his face to the wall. Mother need not sit by him.

So she went back to her chair and rocked quietly, and thought of a little child who was struggling hard to be more than a little child. Later, as she was preparing to go to bed, she heard the wee, sweet voice of him asking ruefully if she were not—maybe—a little lonesome.

"I'm afraid so, dear," she reluctantly admitted.

One could see that this made a difference. If she was really lonesome she might now come into the bedroom; she might sit by David; she might even tell him a story if she wanted to.

"If you do," he said, "it won't matter to-night. It will help you to get use-ter to having me all grown up."

In the trail of soft radiance across the pillow Mother could see how wide open were the eyes of her little boy, but not long after she had drawn a chair to the bedside the drowsy lids began to droop.

"If you're real lonesome I'll hold your hand," said David, and he went to sleep still holding her hand.

Before he was awake the next day she stood looking at her little boy in the darkness of early morning, and she lighted the gas in order to have a better look at him. According to an unvarying custom, there was one wee fist cuddled under his cheek—a wretched insurgent of a fist that had ever disdained all orders to abide under the coverlet. Often in the night Mother had bowed over the tiny sleeper to press her lips upon the plump, smooth wrist before lifting the pretty arm to tuck it softly away into the quilted warmth of the bed. And during such a time it was her wont to listen, in the fear that is never far away from the heart of motherhood, to know if his breathing was quite regular and sweet. It sometimes happened, when she felt the tickling thrill of his ringlets against her cheek, that she would want to wake him up instantly to ask if he was not a dear.

But now had come a time when she felt no impulse to rouse him. The touch of curls upon her cheek she would not feel any more. They were gone, and that baby of hers was gone. When he presently awoke, his greeting was characteristic of his altered condition. He did not call to her, he did not crow with laughter of good feeling and fine health. He merely sat up and solemnly whispered:—

"Trouvers!"

Mother assured him that they were not a dream. He could get up now and put them on, for presently he and she would be setting out to see their old friend, Dr. Redfield.

Little David did not instantly hop out of bed, as she had supposed he would. Little David sat very still. He looked at Mother and at the floor. Then he suddenly lay down again and turned his face to the wall.

"You want to put them on, don't you?"

Mother seemed greatly puzzled. She waited, but David did not move. He said nothing. It was as though he had grown suddenly deaf.

"You had a fine time yesterday, didn't you?" she asked, but David did not reply. He flattened himself against the wall. And Mother added: "It was great fun, wasn't it?—to go to the barber shop with Doctor and afterward to get trouvers?"

There was no sign of life in the little boy, until presently his foot began to wiggle. By degrees he turned over and slowly sat up.

Mother did not seem to see him; she was seated at a low table strewn with toilet articles that sparkled under the rays of the gas-jet. She was dressing her hair, and her arm swung in long, even strokes; from time to time she paused to wind something from the teeth of the white comb about her fingers, which she afterwards tucked deftly into a small wicker box beneath the tilted mirror. In the meantime David was looking at her with a very long face, and by and by he slid quietly off the bed and went to her, pressing himself against her knees.

"What else," she inquired, "did Dr. Redfield give you?"

David did not answer. He pushed his face deep into Mother's lap.

"Didn't Doctor give you something else?"

"No."

The word came with smothered indistinctness, but its meaning was unmistakable.

"What, nothing?"

David raised his head and caught hold of Mother's hand. He had grown very red in the face.

"Then what about the picture?" she asked, giving no heed to his embarrassment. "Where did you get that?"

Both of David's fists were now clinging fast to the woman's hand.

"Mother," he said, "I just tooked it."

"Oh, dear me!"

"Mother, I knocked it down. It broke. I tooked it."

A sudden silence had got hold of the room. The little boy's head sank once more into Mother's lap and he shook with silent sobs. A moist warmth went through her skirt and was felt upon her knee.

"This is hard on the Doctor," she said, and her voice was firm, but her hand gently stroked her little boy's hair. "He let you look at the picture, and now it is spoiled. He had only the one, and can never get another like it. You broke it, and you took it from him. We cannot mend it; it is done for. My, my! what are we to do?"

David's arms went tight about Mother's knees. In mute anguish he clung to her, pleading for help without saying a word.

"If only we had another picture!" Mother suggested.

Would—would that do?

All of a sudden David had stopped crying. With the wet, shiny, tear-trails across his cheeks he looked up.

"Mother!" His eyes were wide open. "In your drawer," he said, but his voice was so small he could hardly make himself heard, "in your drawer there is one—a fine picture!"

"Is there?" Eagerness was in Mother's tone; hopefulness was in Mother's look, but the look vanished and left nothing but disappointment in her eyes. She had remembered a little golden locket in a drawer of the chiffonier, a locket that held the handsome face of a young man. She had never shown the picture to her little boy, and was not aware that he knew anything about it.

"That will never do," she told David. "It does not belong to you, and it cannot be given away. It must be kept always. People care a great deal for—some pictures. They have a meaning which is often one of the very best things life can ever have. If you should be taken from me, and if I should still have your picture, that would be almost the best thing I could have. You see how it is. If some one should take the picture, I could never get another that would mean so much to me."

They began to walk up and down the room. The little boy was clinging to Mother's hand and he kept tangling his pink feet in the folds of his night dress, while his tearful eyes were fixed steadfastly upon the earnest face above him.

"Mother!" he suddenly called out, "where's my scrap-book?"

David had found a way. He and Mother hurried to the bookcase. In great haste they rummaged the shelves; magazines were pushed aside; pamphlets and papers were pushed aside—Good! Here it was, that scrapbook. Wild with excitement David began thumbing the pages; he laughed; he tore some of the leaves. Then he pounced down upon his chief treasure, a picture which Mitch Horrigan had wanted to buy with some strips of tin, a broken Jew's harp, and a wad of shoemaker's wax.

A great masterpiece, this. To the eyes of childhood nothing could be more beautiful. It was a pink and pensive cow with a slight clerical expression, a very dignified animal, caught in the act of sedately skipping the rope.

"Splendid!" Mother exclaimed.

"Yes," David answered, gasping with relief. Then he chuckled in triumph, and Mother did, too. When the picture had been detached from the page the little boy held it tenderly in his hands. Nothing must happen to it until it could be used in making things right with the Doctor.

There had been so much excitement over the cow, so much delight over securing a sacrifice to take the place of the Broken Lady, that when Mother began to dress her little boy she imagined that all thought of trousers had gone from him. But it was not so. With prompt disfavor he regarded the blue suit of kilts edged with lacy braid, and although there was reluctance in Mother's heart, she began to look for the missing knickerbockers.

Every mother must come to it. She must help us tug and pull at the clumsy things even if there comes something to tug and pull at her heart. What matter if there be a voice within her that is crying out to the child of yesterday to linger yet a little longer in the dear winsomeness that will so soon be gone? Call as you will, poor mother; your boy will not heed you now, for the way to manhood is long to travel, and we men-children cannot wait until you, with your pretty dreams, are willing to have us go.



CHAPTER XIV

SKY BLOSSOMS

David had learned a trick of loudly clacking his heels upon the walk to make it seem that he was no longer a little boy. With the picture held firmly in his hands he went strutting proudly at Mother's side when they fared forth this early morning for the Doctor's house.

The street was very still and smelled of yesterday's rain. In the moist hush and semi-darkness which precedes the dawn, the buildings were all silent and buried in mystery, and they gave back a distinct replication of David's footstep. In response to his question as to what other little boy was out of bed so early, Mother answered:—

"That is no one, David. What you hear is an echo."

"Why can't I see Echo?"

"One never does see him."

"Is he a fairy?"

"Rather."

Here ended the conversation. And now, as Mother and Son trudged onward in silence, a strange feeling came upon the little boy, for the world at this hour was so new to him. A distant milk wagon, resembling a block of shadow on wheels, went clattering over the pavement, and from time to time a man smoking a pipe and carrying a tin pail would pass by with long, swinging strides.

The upper air looked different, too. At one place a tall church spire, topped by a copper cross, was blazing with sunshine, and certain windows of the high buildings also began to flame. A pink cloud lay asleep in the blue lap of heaven, and there was a single star, like a pale drop of fire, that trembled up there as though it were about to fall.

"What is that for?" asked David.

"What do you mean, my son?"

"Up there, Mother—see! It is a queer eye. It winks at us."

"One of the flowers of heaven, little boy; that's what it is."

"Did you ever have any?"

"Oh, no, David, because they are so hard to get."

Miss Eastman felt that in the serene beauty of the morning there was something vaguely troubling. To think that all this loveliness of the clear dawn, all this freshness of the sweet air which to her and to David meant the joy of an exquisite fairyland, could yet mean to others only the beginning of another day of sorrow, of death, and squalid misery! How could it be possible that the children of Duck Town, those who should be as happy to-day and as full of health as this little boy of hers, were still held fast in the grip of terrifying disease?

All the same, it was not a pleasant prospect to think of leaving David with Dr. Redfield's housekeeper. As Miss Eastman considered the situation she was suddenly seized with cowardice. She did not want to go on to assist in the fight against contagion; she wanted to turn back, and she began to walk more slowly, loitering, regretting her resolution and seeking a pretext to retreat.

For all that, she presently arrived at the Doctor's house, and at the door-step she was greeted by Mrs. Botz, who appeared with a gay shawl over her head and a letter in her hand.

"Zo early yet!" the housekeeper exclaimed. "You yust save me some troubles. Herr Doctor say I am pleased to take you his letter."

"He wasn't expecting me, then?"

"Ich weiss nicht."

"He's waiting, isn't he? He hasn't gone, I hope."

"Ja, Herr Doctor he iss vendt."

"Oh, that is too bad!" Miss Eastman exclaimed with outward regret, with inward gratification. Her heroic purpose to help in the routing of disease from Duck Town had at least been postponed.

She tore open the envelope which Mrs. Botz had given her, as she began to read the brief communication, a slight puff of wind stirred the wet maple boughs overhead. From the drenched leaves a wee shower of liquid sparks came flashing down about her and the little boy. Some of these pattering drops were caught in the soft mesh of Miss Eastman's hair, where they trembled like rare jewels and scattered the morning sunlight into rainbow gleams.

"There they are Mother—sky-blossoms!" David called out. He clapped his hands gayly; he was greatly excited. "They have fallen down out of heaven, and you have caught some of them."

Mother said not a word. She seized David in her arms. Her eyes were wide open; they were as bright as the raindrops, and she was breathing ever so fast.

"This letter," she said, "this letter, little boy, is for you. Listen, David, only listen.... No; let us wait until we get home before we read our letters."

When, presently, they were safely back in the House of Happiness, this is what Mother read to her little boy on her lap:—

"'To Mr. David Eastman.

"'ESTEEMED SIR:—If you are in need of a father, I would like the job. Will you please file my application? And will you please ask your mother if you may have me? Ask her, David, if I may not live at your house. Tell her, David—tell her, my little boy, that I will be a good husband to her, and love her always.'"

The child took the written page from Mother's hand and looked at it knowingly.

"I have a letter too," she said, but she could scarcely speak; she was trembling so, and it seemed ever so hard for her to breathe.

But indeed and indeed, hers was not a letter to be proud of. It glowered; it smelled like a drug shop; it told her plainly that Duck Town was no business of hers; it told her to stay at home, to mind her own affairs and to go on being a good mother to her little boy. But one sentence, the one at the end, was quite different.

"Tell me," it said, "for I need very much to know; tell me whether David has not put my picture into your heart."



The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS U.S.A.

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