“She liked ’em,” he faltered; “maybe, if what she used to say is all so, she’ll like ’em now. She liked ’em better than she did machines. I’ve just got my carpet-sweeper through; I was thinking how pleased she’d be; I wanted to tell her. If I should go to the good place,—if ever I do go, it will be just her doin’s,—I’ll tell her then, maybe, I—”
He forgot that anybody was there, and, sobbing, hid his face in his great hands.
So we are waiting for the morning when the gates shall open,—Faith and I. I, from my stiller watches, am not saddened by the music of her life. I feel sure that her mother wishes it to be a cheery life. I feel sure that she is showing me, who will have no motherhood by which to show myself, how to help her little girl.
And Roy,—ah, well, and Roy,—he knows. Our hour is not yet come. If the Master will that we should be about His Father’s business, what is that to us?
THE END.