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.

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

"I'd ravver 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, accept this humble offering, I beseech thee'--"

"Accept this hum-bul offering, I--I beseech 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 inside. You wanted to cry, and you were a little afraid somebody else would want to laugh.

The next afternoon the Little Lover carried 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 discomposing 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, "accept 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, Treasury 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 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 recognized 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 never like _him!_ 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.

n.o.body 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 darkness 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 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 like 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 perhaps--if She was not looking at him--if it was at Uncle Larry-- No, no, Little Lover; 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 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 having 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.

The visit seemed like a dream to the Little Lover, next morning. How could it have been real when he could not remember coming 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 smelt 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 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 mother, and his father had nearly always been away. But this was different. Now he had n.o.body 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.

"_I_ wanted to do it!" he sobbed, desolately, his secret out at last.

"Do it? Do what, Reggie?"

"M-marry you. _I_ 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 _ravver_ a mother," the Little Lover said.

Chapter X

The Child

The 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 satisfactory, but she had gradually, with a child's optimism, evolved from the dreary little maze a certain degree of content.