“I’ll let her love her mother the best,” whispered Margaret to the stars,—“so there!”
Chapter IV
Bobby Unwelcome
Bobby had learned U that day in school, and he strutted home beside his nurse, Olga, with conscious relief in the swing of his sturdy legs. There was a special reason why Bobby felt relieved to get to U. He glanced up, up, up, sidewise, at the non-committal face so far above him, and wondered in his anxious little way whether or not it would be prudent to speak of the special reason now. Olga had times, Bobby had discovered, when you dassent speak of things, and it looked—yes, cert’nly—as though she was having one now. Still, if you only dast to—
“It’s the same one that’s in the middle o’ my name, don’t you know,” he plunged in, hurriedly.
“Mercy! What iss it the child iss talking about!”
There! wasn’t she having one? Didn’t she usually say “Mercy!” like that when she was?
“That letter, you know—U. The one in the middle o’ my name,” Bobby hastened on—“right prezac’ly in the middle of it. I wish”—but he caught himself up with a jerk. It didn’t seem best, after all, to consult Olga now—not now, while she was having one. Better wait—only, dear, dear, dear, how long he had waited a’ready!
It had not occurred to Bobby to consult his mother. They two were not intimately acquainted, and naturally he felt shy.
Bobby’s mother was very young and beautiful. He had seen her dressed in a wondrous soft white dress once, with little specks of shiny things burning on her bare throat, and ever since he had known what angels look like.