Sydney smiled. “Oh, surely! A warm dry-goods box to sleep in sometimes, a cheap boarding house here in this city, and—” he passed his hand across his eyes—“and the time I spent with Billy Bennett at his cousin’s camp; that was real luxury.”
Mrs. Schmitz nodded understandingly. “But you have one time a home, a house, a mother?”
“Yes; but I hardly remember my mother. After she died pa wasn’t much on the housekeeping, and we generally slept in a room somewheres and ate round.”
“Not square?” Her eyes twinkled, for she had no intention, as Sydney could see, that the conversation should be a sad one.
“Yes, round the square—at restaurants,” he bandied.
“So? I think that. Now when you came here by me I gave you my poorest room. I say to myself, this is for three times because. One because, he iss not used to good things; he will feel not so strange in a poor but comfortable room. Second because, I will see first how he treats mine furniture. If he iss mitout care for it when it iss old, he will not be goot to it when it iss new. Ant third because, I will see if—if first he likes me.” She hesitated and averted her face. When she resumed her tone was apologetic, almost diffident. “An old woman who all alone lives gets pretty lonesome, seeing only people mit business. I think a goot boy will be company.”
Sydney could never have told what made him do it; he was crushed with shame the moment it was over. With a quick gesture he reached out, caught up her fat, work-worn hand, and kissed her bare arm.
Except Mrs. Bennett’s one motherly welcome, he had not given or received a kiss since his mother’s death; but in that illuminating instant he knew it was the shadowy memory of her caresses that made him understand Mrs. Schmitz’s loneliness; and a great hunger for affection that had been growing all his forlorn life broke forth in that mute kiss.
“Seedney!” She drew his head to her and kissed him softly on the cheek. “We’ll be friends—always friends. Nicht wahr?”