“Up with you, Master Morris! There’s great doings to-day. Have you forgot who’s coming?”
Ellens are stupid.
“She’s come.” But Ellen did not hear, and went on getting the bath ready. If she had heard, it would only have meant quinine or aconite and belladonna to drive away feverishness. For Ellens are very watchful.
“They’ll be here most as soon as I can get you up ’n’ dressed. I’m going to wheel you to the front winder—”
“No!” Morry cried, sharply; “I mean, thank you, no. I’d rather be by the back window where—where I can watch for Jolly.” Homely, freckled, familiar Jolly,—he needed something freckled and homely and familiar. The old dread had come back in the wake of the beautiful dream,—for it had been a dream. Ellen had waked him up.
A boy would like to have his father come home in the sunshine, and the sun was shining. They would come walking up the path to the front-door through it,—with it warm and welcoming on their faces. But it would only be Dadsy and a step-one,—Jolly’s kind, most likely. Jolly’s kind was pretty,—she might be pretty. But she would not come smiling and creeping out of the dark with a halo over her head. That kind came in dreams.
Jolly’s whistle was comforting to hear. Morry leaned out of his cushions to wave his hand. Jolly was going to school; when he came whistling back, she would be here. It would be all over.
Morry leaned back again and closed his eyes. He had a way of closing them when he did the hardest thinking,—and this was the very hardest. Sometimes he forgot to open them, and dropped asleep. Even in the morning one can be pretty tired.
“Is this the Dear Little Boy?”
He heard distinctly, but he did not open his eyes. He had learned that opening your eyes drives beautiful things away.