“S’posing she’s killed ’most dead?”
“She’ll come.”
“Puffickly dead—s’posing?”
Murray took time, but even here his faith in the Promise stood its ground, though the ground shook under it. Sheelah had taught him what a promise was; it was something not to be shaken or killed even in a railroad wreck.
“When anybody promises, they do it,” he said, sturdily. “She promised an’ she’ll come.”
“Then her angel will have to come,” remarked the older, girl child, coolly, with awful use of the indicative mood.
When the half-hour was over and Murray at liberty, he went in to the clock and stood before it with hands a-pocket and wide-spread legs. A great yearning was upon him to know the mystery of telling time. He wished—oh, how he wished he had let Sheelah teach him! Then he could have stood here making little addition sums and finding out just how long it would be till night. Or he could go away and keep coming back here to make little subtraction sums, to find out how much time was left now—and now—and now. It was dreadful to just stand and wonder things.
Once he went up-stairs to his own little room out of the nursery and sat down where he had always sat when Sheelah unlaced him, before he had begun to unlace himself, and stood up where he had always stood when Sheelah unbuttoned him. He sat very still and stood very still, his grave little face intent with imagining. He was imagining how it would be when she did it. She would be right here, close—if he dared, he could put out his hand and smooth her. If he dared, he could take the pins out of her soft hair, and hide in it—
He meant to dare!
“Little silly,” perhaps she would call him; perhaps she would remember to kiss him good-night. And afterwards, when the lark was over, it would stay on, singing in his heart. And he would lie in the dark and love Her.