“She is crying! What did you say to her?”
“Oh, I see!” Dearing jested. “You want to have it out with me, do you? Well, you pick your weapons, old chap, and I'll be your man. I won't take a dare from you or anybody else.”
Dora's arms enfolded her child and pressed his hot cheek passionately to hers. “Yes, I was crying, my baby,” she gulped, “but it is because I am so happy. It is very good of Doctor Wynn to ask you to go. Would you like it?”
“If you wished me to,” the boy replied, slowly, as he still uneasily studied her face.
“I should like it very much,” Dora said—“very, very much! You could have such a splendid time over there.”
“Would you love me just the same—just exactly the same—if I went?” the boy asked, anxiously.
“Just exactly the same.” Dora laughed as she caught Dearing's glance, and remarked to him, in an undertone: “He is such a strange child! Mother says she has never seen one so peculiarly sensitive and concerned over trifles. He often comes in from his play for nothing else than to ask me if I still love him. The slightest change in my manner or tone of voice always brings out that one question. It is the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. If I am at all impatient with him, when I am absorbed in my work, he will come and sit on the floor at my feet, and nothing will satisfy him till I have taken him in my arms and said over and over again that I love him.”
“It is his nature,” Dearing said, as he was turning to leave. “Well, remember, my boy, that my gate is not locked, and if you don't come over in my big lot, I'll come and ride you there on my back, like a two-legged horse; and I might get scared and kick up my heels and dump you over on your head.”