All this time little Lenny was watching her gravely, and occasionally turning his eyes with solemn curiosity upon the sleeping men on the floor.
When Meg had got through her housework, even to the rolling up of little Lenny’s pallet, she came back to the child and sought to amuse him with the ancient histories entitled “Red Riding Hood,” “Goody Two Shoes,” “Cinderella,” “Jack the Giant Killer,” and so forth.
And although of course Lenny had heard these venerable chronicles a hundred times before—as what child has not?—he was ready to listen to them a hundred times more—as what child is not?
But at the end of every story he would ask:
“Met, why not Doosa tome?”
“Doosa will be sure to come, my pretty. Now let me tell you another story.”
—“Tome soon?”
“Yes, she will come soon. Now let me tell you about Hop-O’-My-Thumb.”
Lenny sighed.
Did you ever hear a baby sigh? It is the most pathetic sound in nature. Fortunately they don’t often sigh; they generally prefer to scream.