“No, sweetheart dear,” said I. “It is not for me, this 13th of October, it is all for you. And to-night’s outing is not for me, it is for you; and I think you will like it and I think Poll will like it, and I have leave for to-morrow, and we will stay away all to-morrow.”
As for Tom-puss, I said, we would leave some milk where he could find it, and I would leave a bone or two for him. But I whistled Rip, my dog, after me. I took Poll’s cage, my mother took her bag, and locked and left her door, unconscious that she was never to enter it again.
A Ninety-ninth Avenue car took us up to Fernando Street. It was just the close of twilight when we came there. I took my mother to Church Alley, muttered something about some friends, which she did not understand more than I did, and led her up the alley in her confused surprise. Then I pushed aside my movable board, and, while she was still surprised, led her in after me and slid it back again.
“What is it, dear Rob? Tell me—tell me!”
“This way, sweetheart, this way!” This was all I would say.
I drew her after me through the long passage, led her into the common-room, which was just lighted up by the late evening twilight coming in between the curtains of the great square window. Then I fairly pushed her to the great, roomy easy-chair which I had brought from The Ship, and placed it where she could look out on the evening glow, and I said,—
“Mother, dear, this is the surprise; this is your new home; and, mother dear, your own boy has made it with his own hands, all for you.”
“But, Rob, I do not understand—I do not understand at all. I am so stupid. I know I am awake. But it is as sudden as a dream!”
So I had to begin and to explain it all,—how here was a vacant lot that Mark Henry had the care of, and how I had built this house for her upon it. And long before I had explained it all, it was quite dark. And I lighted up the pretty student’s-lamp, and I made the fire in the new Banner with my own hands.
And that night I would not let her lift a kettle, nor so much as cut a loaf of bread. It was my feast, I said, and I had everything ready, round to a loaf of birthday-cake, which I had ordered at Taylor’s, which I had myself frosted and dressed, and decorated with the initials of my mother’s name.