"Oh, they would want to know you are here," Webb answered over his shoulder, as he strode away. "They will come in a trot when they know about it."
Presently Mostyn felt a small hand creep into his. It was the little boy.
"Do you see them?" the child inquired. "I can't look over the fence."
"Yes, let me hold you up." Mostyn lifted the boy in his arms. "Now, now can you see?" he asked, the words sweeping from him in suddenly released tenderness.
"Yes, yes; and they are coming. Let's go to meet them. Will you?"
"Yes, and you must let me carry you. You know I used to love to carry my own little boy like this—just like this."
The child's arm, already on Mostyn's shoulder, slid closer to his neck till it quite encircled it. The soft, warm hand touched Mostyn's chin.
"Mama and papa said I must call you 'Uncle Dick,' but you are not my really, really uncle, are you?"
"No, but I want to be. Will you—would you mind giving your old uncle a hug with—with both your arms?"
The boy complied.