No; the agony was the memory of his mother’s face.
He was afraid even to open his eyes, afraid, sore afraid, that if he did he should see her standing before him, asking him to answer to her for this day’s deed.
He was afraid that tired, awful tired as she was, she would get up out of her grave to reproach him with his broken promise, to tell him that on account of him there now could be no more rest for her. And he loved his mother,—oh, how he loved his mother!
A second time that night was Scamp disturbed by sobs, but the sobs did not proceed from Flo this time. The tired little girl was sleeping heavily, her head on the dog’s neck. Scamp could only open his eyes, which he did very wide; if he moved the least bit in the world he would wake Flo. The sounds of distress grew louder, he gave a low growl, then a bark, then with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, he was off Flo’s lap and on the bed with Dick,—he was cuddling down by Dick, fawning on him, and licking the tears off his face.
The boy repulsed him rudely. It was quite beyond the capacity of Scamp, great as his powers were, to comfort him. Nevertheless, Scamp had again done his duty. In his rude exit from Flo’s lap he had effectually awakened her. She, too, heard the low smothered sobs of distress, and rising from her cobbler’s stool, she lay down on the straw beside her little brother.
“I’m real glad as you is cryin’, Dick,” said Flo.
This speech of Flo’s was an immense relief to Dick. Of all things he had dreaded telling his sister of his theft.
He dreaded telling her, and yet he longed for her to know. Now by her words he felt sure that in some way she did know. He nestled close to her, and put his arms round her neck.
“Is mother in the room, Flo?”
“No, no, Dick; wot makes you say that? Mother’s in her grave, ’avin’ a good tidy bit o’ a sleep.”