Lunch-time, and after it the time for Toddie to take his nap. Poor Budge was bereft of a playmate, for the doctor's little girl was sick; so he quietly followed me about with a wistful face, that almost persuaded me to take him with me on my drive—our drive. Had he grumbled, I would have felt less uncomfortable; but there's nothing so touching and overpowering to either gods or men, as the spectacle of mute resignation. At last, to my great relief, he opened his mouth.
"Uncle Harry," said he, "do you s'pose folks ever get lonesome in heaven?"
"I guess not, Budge."
"Do little boy angels' papas an' mammas go off visitin', an' stay ever so long?"
"I don't exactly know, Budge, but if they do, the little boy angels have plenty of other little boy angels to play with, so they can't very well be lonesome."
"Well, I don't b'leeve they could make me happy, when I wanted to see my papa an' mamma. When I haven't got anybody to play with, then I want papa an' mamma so bad—so bad as if I would die if I didn't see 'em right away."
"CAN'T YOU BE A WHAY-AL?"
I was shaving, and only half-done, but I hastily wiped off my face, dropped into a rocking-chair, took the forlorn little boy into my arms, and kissed him, caressed him, sympathized with him, and devoted myself entirely to the task and pleasure of comforting him. His sober little face gradually assumed a happier appearance; his lips parted in such lines as no old master ever put upon angel lips; his eyes, from being dim and hopeless, grew warm and lustrous and melting. At last he said:—