Soon the night nursery was in darkness, but for the glimmer from the
night-light, and very still save when the door creaked as a man peered
in at the little figure on the bed. However softly I opened the door, an
inch at a time, his bright eyes turned to me at once, and he always made
the face which means, “What a tremendous adventure!”
“Are you never to fall asleep, David?” I always said.
“When are you coming to bed?” he always replied, very brave but in
a whisper, as if he feared the bears and wolves might have him. When
little boys are in bed there is nothing between them and bears and
wolves but the night-light.
I returned to my chair to think, and at last he fell asleep with
his face to the wall, but even then I stood many times at the door,
listening.
Long after I had gone to bed a sudden silence filled the chamber, and I
knew that David had awaked. I lay motionless, and, after what seemed
a long time of waiting, a little far-away voice said in a cautious
whisper, “Irene!”
“You are sleeping with me to-night, you know, David,” I said.
“I didn't know,” he replied, a little troubled but trying not to be a
nuisance.
“You remember you are with me?” I asked.
After a moment's hesitation he replied, “I nearly remember,” and
presently he added very gratefully, as if to some angel who had
whispered to him, “I remember now.”
I think he had nigh fallen asleep again when he stirred and said, “Is it
going on now?”
“What?”
“The adventure.”
“Yes, David.”
Perhaps this disturbed him, for by-and-by I had to inquire, “You are not
frightened, are you?”
“Am I not?” he answered politely, and I knew his hand was groping in the
darkness, so I put out mine and he held on tightly to one finger.
“I am not frightened now,” he whispered.
“And there is nothing else you want?”
“Is there not?” he again asked politely. “Are you sure there's not?” he
added.
“What can it be, David?”
“I don't take up very much room,” the far-away voice said.
“Why, David,” said I, sitting up, “do you want to come into my bed?”
“Mother said I wasn't to want it unless you wanted it first,” he
squeaked.
“It is what I have been wanting all the time,” said I, and then without
more ado the little white figure rose and flung itself at me. For the
rest of the night he lay on me and across me, and sometimes his feet
were at the bottom of the bed and sometimes on the pillow, but he always
retained possession of my finger, and occasionally he woke me to say
that he was sleeping with me. I had not a good night. I lay thinking.
Of this little boy, who, in the midst of his play while I undressed him,
had suddenly buried his head on my knees.
Of the woman who had been for him who could be sufficiently daring.
Of David's dripping little form in the bath, and how when I essayed to
catch him he had slipped from my arms like a trout.
Of how I had stood by the open door listening to his sweet breathing,
had stood so long that I forgot his name and called him Timothy.