With beating heart, Dicky listened. He heard her go slowly down the stairs. Then he heard her hurrying from the kitchen into the other rooms. Then silence.
He could bear the suspense no longer. He ran softly to the bottom of the staircase. Outside the dining-room door he paused. There was a sound like a sob. Was she angry at what he had done?
“Mother,” he said, in a shaky little voice, as he pushed the door open.
She was waiting for him with her arms outstretched. He threw himself into them.
“Dicky,” she said, “my dear little Dicky, did you do all this? The fire alight, breakfast cooked, and everything?”
“Yes, mother,” he panted, “and the doorstep looks lovely! Oh, I’m so happy, mother. I always wanted to help, and I often tried. But you were never pleased. Now, I shall always do all the work all the time, and you will always be pleased, won’t you?”
“Always, always,” she said. “But we will work together—and, and play together when the work is done, and, though we are very poor now, we shall be very happy!”
“Yes,” said Dicky. “We shall be happy and when baby’s old enough we’ll teach him to help, too, won’t we?”
And that is how Dicky got his chance.