Again Mrs. Lowell could see the spasm in his throat and face. It passed and left the usual dull listlessness of expression.
"Your mother was very sweet," said Mrs. Lowell quietly, and some acknowledgment lighted his eyes as he suddenly looked up at her. "I know that because she made such a deep impression on the little boy she left. How old were you, Bertie, in that happy time when she was here?"
"I—it was Christmas, and there have been—five Christmases since. I remember them on my fingers, and one hand is gone."
Mrs. Lowell met his shifting look with the steady, kind gaze which was so fraught with sympathy that his forlorn, neglected soul turned towards its warmth like a struggling flower to the sun.
"I'll tell you what I think would be beautiful, Bertie," she said. "And it is for you to do everything you do for her, just as if she were here, or as if you were going to see her to-morrow. Did she ever talk to you about God?"
"Yes. I said prayers that Christmas—and I got a sled."
"Do you ever say prayers now?"
"No. It—it doesn't do any good if you—if you live with Uncle Nick. He—he won't let God give you—anything."
"Let me tell you something wonderful, Bertie. Nobody—not even Uncle Nick—can stand between you and God. You know the way your mother loved you? God loves you that way, too. Like a Father and Mother both. So, whenever you think of your mother's love, think of God's love, too. It is just as real. In fact, it was God, you know, who made her love you."
The boy looked up at this.