She rocked him. "Hush, dear!" she crooned. "You're safe—with your mother. What frightens you?"
"The cross!" he sobbed.
God knows! 'twas a pity that his childish heart misinterpreted the message of the cross—changing his loving purpose into sin. But the misinterpretation was not forever to endure....
The wind began to stir the leaves—tentative gusts: swirling eagerly through the park. There was a flash—an instant clap of thunder, breaking overhead, rumbling angrily away. Two men ran past. Great drops of rain splashed on the pavement.
"Let us go home," the boy said.
"Not yet!" she protested. "Oh, not yet!"
He escaped from her arms.
"Don't go, Richard!" she whimpered. "Please don't, dear! Not yet. I—I'm—oh, I'm not ready to say good-night. Not yet!"
He took her hand. "Come, mother!" he said.
"Not yet!"