“‘I never knew who Anna’s husband was. It is a sad story, which I would gladly forget, but Robin’s presence keeps it in my mind,’ and bowing her head over the child, the poor woman wept passionately.
“‘Poor grandma, don’t cry. I love you! What makes grandma cry over me so much, and look so sorry at me? Is it because I am a little lame boy?’
“This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away the tears of her he called grandmother. He had not talked much before, but what he said now went through my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered:
“‘People sometimes cry for joy.’
“‘But she don’t,’ he said, nodding toward Mrs. West, who left us alone while she bathed her face and eyes. ‘She looks so sorry, and says, “Poor Robin,” so often. I guess it’s because my feet will never walk, that she says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to me so good, and said God made me lame; that up in heaven there were no little cripples; that if I loved the Saviour, and didn’t fret about my feet, I’d go up there some day; and since then I’ve tried hard not to mind, and ever so many times a day I say softly to myself, “Will Jesus help Robin not to fret because he’s a poor lame boy, of no use to anybody.” I say it way in my mouth, but God hears just the same.’
“I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling beside the lame boy, I wound my arms around his neck, and laid his curly head upon my bosom, just as I would have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus afflicted.
“‘Seems like you was most my mother,’ he said, caressing my cheek with his soft little hand. ‘You don’t look like her much, only I dreamed once she came to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted feet, oh! so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and next day I told it to grandma, and asked her if she wasn’t sure my mother was in heaven! She did not answer until I said again, “Is she in heaven?” Then she said, “I hope so, Robin;” but I wanted to know sure, and kept on asking, until she burst out with the loudest cry I ever heard her or anybody cry, and said, “God knows, my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope she’s there!” but she wouldn’t say for sure, just as she did when the minister and Mrs. Terry’s baby died. Why not? Why didn’t she? Lady, you look good. You look as if you prayed. Do you pray?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered, wondering if he would call my careless words a prayer.
“‘Then lady,’ and the deep eyes of blue looked eagerly, wistfully at me, ‘then tell me true, is my mother in heaven, sure?’
“What could I do,—I who knew nothing to warrant a different conclusion,—what could I do but answer, ‘Yes.’ He believed me, the trustful, innocent child, clapping his hands for joy, while the picture on the wall, wholly wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the answer given to her boy. He did not doubt me in the least, neither did I doubt myself; Anna was safe, whatever her sin might have been; whether the wife of one husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely was forgiven.