"Yes, dear, he is like you."
There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes and plucked at Greta's gown.
"Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father knows who it is?"
"I can not say—we have never told him."
"Nor I—he never asked, never once—only, you know, he gave up his work at the mine, and went back to the charcoal-pit when Ralphie came. But he never said a word."
Greta did not answer. At that moment the bedroom door was pushed open with a little lordly bang, and the great wee man entered with his piece of bread insecurely on one prong of a fork.
"Toas'," he explained complacently, "toas'," and walked up to the empty grate and stretched his arm over the fender at the cold bars.
"Why, there's no fire for toast, you darling goose," said Greta, catching him in her arms, much to his masculine vexation.
Mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face was full of the yearning of the blind. Then she lay back.
"Never mind," she said to herself in a faltering voice, "let me lie quiet and think of all his pretty ways."