And me, seeing him, and the folks all gathered round the Square, waiting for the after-supper part of the entertainment, and knowing what I’d planned should happen right afterward, I had only one thought:
“Abner,” I says, just the same as if he hadn’t been a great man, “the children—they’re going to march. They’re in back of the booth, all ready. You must lead ’em! He must lead ’em, Mis’ Sykes, mustn’t he—and sing with ’em? Every child here knows your songs. Oh, would you come and march with ’em?”
I love to remember how deep and bright his face got. “Would I march?” he says. “With children? When is it?—now?”
I put out my hand to thank him, and he took hold of it. And all of a sudden, right down there close by our two hands I see somebody. And it was Lisbeth’s little boy, that had come running to us and was tugging at my skirt.
“Look,” Chris says, clear. “I got on this white one. Couldn’t—couldn’t I march too?”
He was looking up, same as a rose, his big eyes shining hopeful. My, my, but he was dear. And Abner Dawes looked down at him. He’d never seen him before—nor knew about his being Lisbeth’s.
“March!” Abner cries. “Of course you can march! Come along with me.”
And he swung little Christopher up on to his back. And he run out into the midst of the other children, where Mis’ Sykes was marshaling ’em before the booth.
“God bless him,” says Eppleby, behind me.
But then Mis’ Sykes looked up, and saw him. And she never hesitated a minute, not even a minute to wonder why. She just set her lips together in that thin line I knew, and she run right up to Abner.