“She goes out washin’. ’Tisn’t so very bad, you see,” returned Dil, with a certain something akin to pride. “Beggin’s worse.”
He had finished the sketches,—there were several of them,—and he began to gather up his pencils.
“Now that the work is done, we must have a picnic,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll find a fruit-stand somewhere. Keep right here until I return.”
The children gazed at each other in a sort of speechless wonder. There were no words to express the strange joy that filled each heart. Their eyes followed him in and out, and even when he was lost to sight their faith remained perfect. Then they looked at each other, still in amazement.
“It’s better’n Cunny Island,” said Bess. “I’ve wisht we could go sometime when mother’s startin’ out. But if she’d been good an’ tooken us, we wouldn’t a’ seen him. But I’m kinder sorry not to start right away, after all. Only there’s the cold, an’ I ain’t got no clo’es. Mebbe he knows best. An’ he’s so nice.”
“It’s curis,” Dil said after a long pause. “I wisht I could read quick an’ had some learnin’. There’s so many things to know. There’s so many people in the world, an’ some of thim have such nice things, an’ can go to places—”
“Their folks don’t drink rum, mebbe,” returned the little one sententiously.
“I don’t s’pose you can get out of it ’cept by goin’ to heaven. But then, why—mebbe the others what’s havin’ good times don’t care to go. Mebbe he won’t,” drearily.
He soon returned with a bag of fruit. Such pears, such peaches, and bananas! And when he took out his silver fruit-knife, pared them, and made little plates out of paper, their wonder was beyond any words.
Dil eyed hers askance. She was so used to saving the best.