“Yes—yes!”
“Oh!—why!” His eyes shone. He put up his hand, then drew it shyly back. If she would only take out the pins herself—if he only dared to—
“What is it, Little Silly—darling?” They were up in his room. She had her cheek against his little, bare, brown knees. It brought her soft, gold-colored hair so near—if he only dared—
“What is it you’d like, little son?” And he took courage. She had never called him Little Son before. It made him brave enough.
“I thought—the reg’larest kind—your hair—if you’d let it tumble all down, I’d—hide in it,” he breathed, his knees against her cheek trembling like little frightened things.
It fell about him in a soft shower and he hid in it and laughed. Sheelah heard them laughing together.
Chapter IX
The Little Lover
“I wish I knew for very certain,” the Little Lover murmured, wistfully. The licorice-stick was so shiny and black, and he had laid his tongue on it one sweet instant, so he knew just how good it tasted. If he only knew for very certain—of course there was a chance that She did not love licorice sticks. It would be a regular pity to waste it. Still, how could anybody not love ’em—
“’Course She does!” exclaimed the Little Lover, with sudden conviction, and the struggle was ended. It had only been a question of Her liking or not liking. That decided, there was no further hesitation. He held up the licorice-stick and traced a wavery little line round it with his finger-nail. The line was pretty near one of its ends—the end towards the Little Lover’s mouth.