Tom turned round to his father with a beaming face.
“Then we are all satisfied, father,” he said, “and now I’m going upstairs very quietly to see if I can see her—them. Them!”
May was asleep, and he was told to delay any further visit till the morning. If she woke she had better not be disturbed; but she should be told that Tom had come in, and that he had been up to see her.
Next day was Sunday, and Tom awoke very early in that most delicious way of all, slowly, with a vague growing consciousness of utter happiness. The window was open, and he lay a few minutes letting the cool breeze ruffle his hair before he stirred. Then rising and putting on a dressing-gown, he went to make inquiries as to whether May was awake, and whether he might see her. The nurse answered both questions affirmatively, and he went in. She was lying propped up by pillows, and by the bed was a little pink-and-white cot, in which Tom could just see a little crumpled red face.
May welcomed him with a smile, and laid her finger on her lips.
“Hush, Tom, he’s asleep,” she whispered, “but you may look at him.”
Tom availed himself of the permission.
“What a queer little thing it is!” he said.
“Queer! It!” objected May. “It’s him, and he’s beautiful.”
Tom knelt down by the bed.