Then he passed on to the extempore petitions, in which he was always allowed free expression. To-night they came with unwonted faltering and hesitation. The child-soul was aware of a disturbed atmosphere around it—of groping somehow in darkness uncertain of itself.
“Please, God, bless dear papa—and dear mamma—and dear Pollie—and dear Aunt Florence—and—and dear Mr. Brand—and dear Mrs. May—and make me a good boy. Amen.”
“Dear Mrs. May?” Who was that? Lucy had to pause for a moment ere she remembered that this was the name of the landlady, whom the child had seen for the first time two hours before, and who had won his heart by bringing in for him a special tea plate painted with a picture of Walmer Castle!
It was only as Hugh stood in his little night-gown, half stepping into the cot, that he said, almost with a whimper—
“I never kissed good night to papa.”
“Then run away and kiss him now,” said Lucy in her natural tone.
Hugh was himself again in a second, scampering away, kicking aside his flowing white robes with his little pink feet, and bestowing upon his father what was evidently an ecstasy of hugs, accompanied by a perfect storm of hearty “smacks.” Then he gallopaded back, hopped into bed, held out his arms to his mother, and clasped her down to himself in a rapturous embrace, to which she responded with an added tenderness born of a little remorse for the foolish pang he had given her.
“But you will let us go in the boat?” he whispered before he released her.
She kissed him again as her only answer, and went back into the sitting-room. Her husband looked up at her with some solicitude, and drew up a chair for her at his side.
“I’m afraid you have been very much overwrought, Lucy,” he said. “It’s no use saying ‘No.’ I can hear it in your voice. When you went out of the room, I thought you were actually crying. I was quite uneasy till I saw you come in again all right.”