In the morning his Sunday clothes, to his wonder, were prepared for him to put on. The little old faded crimson carpet-bag, which she had always told him, to the no small content of his self-importance, was his own, stood plump and locked on the little table under the clock. His chair was close beside mammy’s. She had all the delicacies he liked best for his breakfast. There was a thin little slice of fried bacon, and a new-laid egg, and a hot cake, and tea—quite a grand breakfast.
Mammy sat beside him very close. Her arm was round him. She was very pale. She tried to smile at his prattle, and her eyes filled up as often as she looked at him, or heard him speak.
Now and then he looked wonderingly in her face, and she tried to smile her old smile and nodded, and swallowed down some tea from her cup.
She made belief of eating her breakfast, but she could not.
When the wondering little man had ended his breakfast, with her old kind hands she drew him towards her.
“Sit down on my lap, my precious—my own man—my beautiful boy—my own angel bright. Oh, darlin’—darlin’—darlin’!” and she hugged the boy to her heart, and sobbed over his shoulder as if her heart was bursting.
He remembered that she cried the same way when the doctor said he was safe and sure to recover.
“Mammy,” he said, kissing her, “Amy has birthdays—and I think this is my birthday—is it?”
“No, darlin’; no, no,” she sobbed, kissing him. “No, my darlin’, no. Oh, no, ’taint that.”
She got up hastily, and brought him his little boots that she had cleaned. The boy put them on, wondering, and she laced them.