"He sings--er--very well, does n't he?"
The woman was still more visibly embarrassed.
"I--I don't know," she murmured; then in stronger tones, "The one that
looked like him did."
"Are there two?" he asked in stupid amazement.
Miss Wetherby laughed uneasily, then she sighed.
"Well, ter tell the truth, Mr. Wiggins, I s'pose there ain't; but
sometimes I think there must be. I'll send Robert down ter the
rehearsal to-night, and you can see what ye can do with him." And with
this Mr. Wiggins was forced to be content.
Bobby sang on Sunday. The little church was full to the doors. Bobby
was already famous in the village, and people had a lively curiosity as
to what this disquieting collector of bugs and snakes might offer in
the way of a sacred song. The "nighty" was, perforce, absent, much to
the sorrow of Ann; but the witchery of the glorious voice entered again
into the woman's soul, and, indeed, sent the entire congregation home
in an awed silence that was the height of admiring homage.
At breakfast time Monday morning, Bobby came downstairs with his brown
paper parcel under his arm. Ann glanced at his woeful face, then went
out into the kitchen and slammed the oven door sharply.
"Well, marm, I've had a bully time---sure's a gun," said the boy
wistfully, following her.
Miss Wetherby opened the oven door and shut it with a second bang; then
she straightened herself and crossed the room to the boy's side.
"Robert," she began with assumed sternness, trying to hide her depth of
feeling, "you ain't a-goin' home ter-day--now mind what I say! Take
them things upstairs. Quick--breakfast's all ready!"
A great light transfigured Bobby's face. He tossed his bundle into a
corner and fell upon Miss Wetherby with a bearlike hug.
"Gee-whiz! marm--but yer are a brick! An' I 'll run yer errands an'
split yer wood, an' I won't take no dogs an' cats in the parlor, an'
I'll do ev'rythin'--ev'rythin' ye want me to! Oh, golly--golly!--I'm
goin' ter stay--I'm goin' ter stay!" And Bobby danced out of the house
into the yard there to turn somersault after somersault in hilarious
glee.
A queer choking feeling came into Ann Wetherby's throat. She seemed
still to feel the loving clasp of those small young arms.
"Well, he--he's part angel, anyhow," she muttered, drawing a long
breath and watching with tear-dimmed eyes Bobby's antics on the grass
outside.
And Bobby stayed--not only Monday, but through four other long
days--days which he filled to the brim with fun and frolic and joyous
shouts as before--and yet with a change.
The shouts were less shrill and the yells less prolonged when Bobby was
near the house. No toads nor cats graced the parlor floor, and no bugs
nor snakes tortured Miss Wetherby's nerves when Bobby's bed was made
each day. The kitchen woodbox threatened to overflow--so high were its
contents piled--and Miss Wetherby was put to her wits' end to satisfy
Bobby's urgent clamorings for errands to run.
And when the four long days were over and Saturday came, a note--and
not Bobby--was sent to the city. The note was addressed to "Miss Ethel
Wetherby," and this is what Ethel's amazed eyes read:
_My Dear Niece_:--You can tell that singer man of Robert's that he is
not going back any more. He is going to live with me and go to school
next winter. I am going to adopt him for my very own. His father and
mother are dead--he said so.