"Indeed I have," she declared; "often and often, I do many things that
I ought not to do"—
"Oh! never, never," cried Dick, clutching her around the neck, to the detriment of her lace-trimmed wrapper. "My sweetest, dearingest mamma is ever and always just right."
"Indeed, Dick," said Mrs. Whitney earnestly, "the longer I live, I find that every day I have something to be sorry for in myself. But God, you know, is good," she whispered softly.
Dick was silent.
"And then when papa goes," continued Mrs. Whitney, "why, then, my boy, it is very hard not to cry."
Here was something that the boy could grasp; and he seized it with avidity.
"And you stop crying for us," he cried; "I know now why you always put on your prettiest gown, and play games with us the evening after papa goes. I know now."
"Here are three letters," cried the parson, hurrying in, and tossing them over to the boy. "And Polly Pepper has written to me, too."
Dick screamed with delight. "Two for me; one from Ben, and one from
Grandpapa!"
"And mine is from Phronsie," said Mrs. Whitney, seizing an epistle carefully printed in blue crayon.