It was late in the night. My mother and I sat alone in her dim-lit room. We were waiting—both waiting. And I was waiting for the lights of the returning punts.
“Davy!” my mother called. “You are still there?”
“Ay, mother,” I answered. “I’m still sittin’ by the window, lookin’ out.”
“I am glad, dear,” she sighed, “that you are here—with me—to-night.”
She craved love, my love; and my heart responded, as the knowing hearts of children will.
“Ah, mother,” I said, “’tis lovely t’ be sittin’ here—all alone with you!”
“Don’t, Davy!” she cried, catching her breath. “I’m not able to bear the joy of it. My heart——”
“’Tis so,” I persisted, “’cause I loves you so!”
“But, oh, I’m glad, Davy!” she whispered. “I’m glad you love your mother. And I’m glad,” she added, softly, “that you’ve told me so—to-night.”
By and by I grew drowsy. My eyes would not stay open. And I fell asleep with my head on the window-sill. I do not know how long I slept.