‘Yes, papa? Then do you know, ever since I can remember, that some day has been coming. Will it come this week?’
‘I don’t know, darling. It may come any time. It may come to-day; perhaps it is on the way now.’
‘I don’t know, papa,’ replied the little one, shaking her head solemnly. ‘It is an awful while coming. I prayed so hard last night for it to come, after mamma put me in bed. What makes mamma cry when she puts me to bed? Is she crying for some day?’
‘Oh, that’s all your fancy, little one,’ replied the father huskily. ‘Mamma does not cry. You must be mistaken.’
‘No, indeed, papa; I’se not mistook. One day I heard mamma sing about some day, and then she cried—she made my face quite wet.’
‘Hush, Nelly; don’t talk like that, darling.’
‘But she did,’ persisted the little one. ‘Do you ever cry, papa?’
‘Look at that little sparrow, Nelly. Does he not look hungry, poor little fellow? He wants to come in the room to you.’
‘I dess he’s waiting for some day papa,’ said the child, looking out at the dingy London sparrow perched on the window ledge. ‘He looks so patient. I wonder if he’s hungry? I am, papa.’
The father looked at his little one with passionate tenderness. ‘Wait till mamma comes, my darling.’