“O, I darsn’t. I’m not fit, _I_’m not. She’d rether have you.”
But I told him that I knew she would be as pleased that he should give
it to her himself as she was when he gave her the China pinks on that
distant summer day. So the great awkward fellow bent down, as simply as
a child, as tenderly as a woman, and left the flower in its place.
“_She_ liked ’em,” he faltered; “maybe, if what she used to say is all
so, she’ll like ’em now. She liked ’em better than she did machines.
I’ve just got my carpet-sweeper through; I was thinking how pleased
she’d be; I wanted to tell her. If I should go to the good place,--if
ever I do go, it will be just her doin’s,--I’ll tell her then, maybe,
I--”
He forgot that anybody was there, and, sobbing, hid his face in his
great hands.
* * * * *
So we are waiting for the morning when the gates shall open,--Faith and
I. I, from my stiller watches, am not saddened by the music of her life.
I feel sure that her mother wishes it to be a cheery life. I feel sure
that she is showing me, who will have no motherhood by which to show
myself, how to help her little girl.
And Roy,--ah, well, and Roy,--he knows. Our hour is not yet come. If the
Master will that we should be about His Father’s business, what is that
to us?