"Ah, Dannie, isn't you?"
Still I would not heed him.
"I wisht you was," he sighed, "for I'm wonderful lonely the night,
lad, an' wantin' t' talk a spell."
'Twas like a child's beseeching. I was awake at once--wide awake for
him: moved by the wistfulness of this appeal to some perception of his
need.
"An' is you comfortable, Dannie, lyin' there in your own little bed?"
"Ay, sir."
"An' happy?"
"Grand, sir!" said I.
He crept softly to my bed. "You don't mind?" he whispered. I drew my
feet away to make room. He sat down, and for a moment patted me with
the tenderness of a woman. "You don't mind?" he ventured again, in
diffidence. I did not mind (but would not tell him so); nay, so far
was I from any objection that I glowed with content in this assurance
of loving protection from the ills of the world. "No?" said he. "I'm
glad o' that: for I'm so wonderful old an' lonely, an' you're sort o'
all I got, Dannie, t' fondle. 'Tis pleasant t' touch a thing that's
young an' not yet smirched by sin an' trouble. 'Tis some sort o' cure
for the souls o' broken folk, I'm thinkin'. An' you don't mind? I'm
glad o' that. You're gettin' so wonderful old yourself, Dannie, that I
was a bit afeared. A baby yesterday an' a man the morrow! You're near
growed up. 'Leven year old!" with a wry smile, in which was no pride,
but only poignant regret. "You're near growed up." Presently he
withdrew a little. "Ay," said he, gently; "you is housed an' clad an'
fed. So much I've managed well enough." He paused--distraught, his
brows bent, his hand passing aimlessly over the scars and gray
stubble of his head. "You're happy, Dannie?" he asked, looking up.
"Come, now, is you sure? You'd not be makin' game o' the old man,
would you, Dannie? You'd not tell un you _was_ when you _wasn't_,
would you? Is you sure you're happy? An' you're glad, is you, t' be
livin' all alone at Twist Tickle with a ol' feller like Nick Top?"
"Wonderful happy, sir," I answered, used to the question, free and
prompt in response; "happy, sir--with you."
"An' you is sure?"