"Oh, this is a beautiful garden," she said. "And after today, I'm going to live where there's flowers all the time! My mother, she's come back from Africa. My father hasn't, because he's got to hunt lions. But my mother and me, we're going to live in a little cottage in—in, well, some place. And there's a garden a-a-all around the cottage,"—she made a sweeping gesture with one short arm—"a garden of roses! And I'm going to have my mother every day. And she loves me! And she's good, and brave, and sweet, and pretty."
At that moment, Sue Milo was beautiful. All the tenderness of a heart starved of its rightful love looked from her eyes. And her face shone as if lighted by a flame. "I—love you!" she said tremulously.
"Do you?"—there was an answering look of love in the eyes of the child.
"Oh, so tenderly!"
The little face sobered. The small figure moved forward a step. "I'm—I'm glad"—almost under her breath. "Because—because I love you, too." Then coming still closer, and looking earnestly into those eyes so full of gentle sweetness, "Who—are—you?"
"Barbara,"—Sue's arms went out again, yearningly—"Barbara, I—am your mother."
"Mother!"—the cry rang through the Close. The child flung herself into those waiting arms, clasping Sue with her own. "Oh, mother! Mother! Mother!"
"My baby! My baby!"
Now past the open door of the Church, walking two and two in their white cottas, came the choir. And their voices, high and clear, sang that verse of Ikey's song which Sue loved best—
"O happy harbor of God's Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In Thee no sorrow can be found,
Nor grief, nor care, nor toil!"