The dog nuzzled the man's hand and fawned upon him, making in his throat little noises of welcome.
Frederick held out his other hand.
"Won't you come, too, little boy?"
"I can't!... Mummy wouldn't like it. I don't know you."
"She won't mind, I'm sure," replied Frederick, his heart beating so hard he could hear it. "Pete knows me, and I know your mother. Her name is—is Tessibel.... Isn't it?"
The man could scarcely get that beloved name from between his lips.
"Yes, Tessibel is my mummy," said the boy. "You know my mummy, and my Uncle Forrie?"
"Yes," assented Frederick, sitting down. "Come here and let me tell you all about your mother's beautiful curls."
Boy hitched nearer the tall stranger. He was drawn in some unknown way toward this man whose arms were out-held to him. Then, suddenly, he walked straight into them, his eyes still very grave, still very questioning.
The moment Frederick touched the little one he felt the world was his. He forgot Waldstricker, forgot Madelene, forgot everything, but his elf-like son within his cuddling grasp. He touched his lips to the little face.