The words seemed to leap from his burning lips. The Angel dropped the bundle on the bed and laid the picture face down across his knees. She gently pushed his head to the pillow and caught his arms in a firm grasp.
“Yes, dear heart,” she said with fullest assurance. “No little clothes were ever whiter. I never in all my life saw such dainty, fine, little stitches; and as for loving you, no boy's mother ever loved him more!”
A nervous trembling seized Freckles.
“Sure? Are you sure?” he urged with clicking teeth.
“I know,” said the Angel firmly. “And Freckles, while you rest and be glad, I want to tell you a story. When you feel stronger we will look at the clothes together. They are here. They are all right. But while I was at the Home getting them, I heard of some people that were hunting a lost boy. I went to see them, and what they told me was all so exactly like what might have happened to you that I must tell you. Then you'll understand that things could be very different from what you always have tortured yourself with thinking. Are you strong enough to listen? May I tell you?”
“Maybe 'twasn't me mother! Maybe someone else made those little stitches!”
“Now, goosie, don't you begin that,” said the Angel, “because I know that it was!”
“Know!” cried Freckles, his head springing from the pillow. “Know! How can you know?”
The Angel gently soothed him back.
“Why, because nobody else would ever sit and do it the way it is done. That's how I know,” she said emphatically. “Now you listen while I tell you about this lost boy and his people, who have hunted for months and can't find him.”