He stooped, lifted the bag of tools to his shoulders, and before Tommy could stay him had moved some steps away.
"Don't go yet, tell me some more about what you'd do," and Tommy turned to follow him.
But was it the boy? And was that a bag of tools on his back? It had grown strangely longer and heavier now, so that it dragged on the ground, and the face was the face of the Picture, and lo, it turned toward him, and the hand was raised in benediction and farewell, "I am with you always," and he was gone.
"Oh! come back, come back," sobbed Tommy, reaching out his arms and struggling to run after him.
"Poor boy," said his mother, wiping the blinding tears from his eyes, "your sleep didn't do you much good."
"I've not been asleep," said Tommy; "I've been talking with—with—Him," and he spoke low with a longing reverence and pointed to the Picture.
"It was a dream, my child."
"Mother, it was a vision. I saw Him, when He was a little boy in His own town, Nazareth. And, mother, I even told Him it wasn't much of a place to live in. He talked to me about Bob. He said you knew Him. I saw him cure a little bird. And oh, mother, He said He would be with me always. He is a little boy like me! I know what to do now. He showed me. I must find Bob; I must have him forgive me. I want to bring him home with me into my bed for to-night."
He stopped. "Mother," he said solemnly, "to-morrow is His birthday."