"I was thinking that too. I could not have stayed away, and so back we went. She—she—my wife, seemed more content there. But always I noticed that she seemed to be listening and waiting, and often she smiled and talked as though she was answering the little one, but—but——" his head was drooping, he seemed to be falling asleep. Whimple stirred uneasily, and Tommy Watson, whose cheeks were wet with tears, shook a warning finger at him. The old man looked up again. "The shadow came again," he said quietly, "and somewhere—somewhere—they are waiting for me. Men differ on religion, and fight over the future state. What do I know of it? I don't know. A Jew, though a British subject born, a comedian—some say I have no religion, and never had. I don't know. But, oh! I know they wait for me—and where they wait is home."
For a long time there was silence; Epstein was the first to break it. He stood up suddenly, and with a new light in his eyes asked of Whimple, as though seeing him for the first time that day, how he liked the carriage and the doll.
"Fine," said Whimple as heartily as he could, for his throat was lumpy and his heart was beating quickly.
"I'm glad of that. Why, what's the matter, Tommy, you look as though you had been crying?"
"Slight cold in the head," returned Tommy rather abruptly, "rotten time of the year to get a cold too."
"It'll be all right in a day or two, I hope," said Epstein. "I must be going to Turnpike's. I want them to give this to Dolly to-morrow. You know I had a baby girl one time"—he proceeded quite firmly—"she—she died—and Rachel, her mother, followed—shortly. We called her Dolly—after Flo Dearmore's mother, who was very good to us"—here he looked smilingly at Tommy, who had blushed at the mention of Flo's name—"my little girl had beautiful brown eyes—just like Dolly Turnpike's."
He left them then. Whimple lingered a little while and finally blurted out—"I never knew that about Epstein."
"I've heard little bits of it," said Tommy, whose eyes were still moist. "Say, but he's a wonder though." Whimple agreed. Twice he made as though to go, and after the second attempt he asked bluntly, "Does William come here every morning yet?"
"Yes," answered Tommy.
"Well, I—that is——" he did not finish the sentence, and did not know how he could, but Tommy saved him. "That's all right," he said, "I'll send him over right after his lesson to-morrow. Whimple, you know what the good book says: it's more blessed to take a man on again than to refuse to give him another chance."