“Yer’ll have to ax this here four-legged party what’s doin’. I didn’t stop—I kep’ right on goin’. He laid down on his job, that’s all, marm. I’ll get him up, come Chris’mas. Now then, yer ole fool!”
There was no patience left in the “fare” standing there beside the plunging beast. She fumbled in her purse, found something, dropped it somewhere, and hurried away down the street. She did not walk home, because she ran. It was well the streets were quiet ones.
“Has he gone to bed?” she came panting in upon drowsy Sheelah, startling that phlegmatic person out of an honest Irish dream.
“Murray—Little Silly—has he gone to bed? Oh no!” for she saw him then, an inert little heap at Sheelah’s feet. She gathered him up in her arms.
“I won’t! I won’t go, Sheelah! I’m waiting. She promis—” in drowsy murmur.
“She’s here—she’s come, Murray! Mamma’s come home to put you to bed—Little Silly, open your eyes and see mamma!”
And he opened them and saw the love in her eyes before he saw her. Sleep took instant wings. He sprang up.
“I knew you’d come! I told Sheelah! When anybody promises, they— Come on quick up-stairs! I can unlace myself, but I’d rather—”
“Yes, yes!” she sobbed.
“And we’ll have a lark, won’t we? You said a lark; but not the reg’larest kind—I don’t suppose we could have the reg’larest kind?”