nse.

"Will--will it last?" he breathed.

"Always, Morry."

The Gracious Step-one knew his name!

"Then Jolly didn't know this kind,--we never s'posed there was a kind
like this! Real Ones must be like this."

And while he lay in the warm shawl, in the soft haze of the
night-lamp, he seemed to fall asleep, and, before he knew, it was
morning. Ellen had come.

"Up with you, Master Morris! There's great doings to-day. Have you
forgot who's coming?"

Ellens are stupid.

"She's come." But Ellen did not hear, and went on getting the bath
ready. If she had heard, it would only have meant quinine or aconite
and belladonna to drive away feverishness. For Ellens are very
watchful.

"They'll be here most as soon as I can get you up 'n' dressed. I'm
going to wheel you to the front winder--"

"No!" Morry cried, sharply; "I mean, thank you, no. I'd rather be by
the back window where--where I can watch for Jolly." Homely,
freckled, familiar Jolly,--he needed something freckled and homely
and familiar. The old dread had come back in the wake of the
beautiful dream,--for it had been a dream. Ellen had waked him up.

A boy would like to have his father come home in the sunshine, and
the sun was shining. They would come walking up the path to the
front-door through it,--with it warm and welcoming on their faces.
But it would only be Dadsy and a step-one,--Jolly's kind, most
likely. Jolly's kind was pretty,--_she_ might be pretty. But she
would not come smiling and creeping out of the dark with a halo over
her head. That kind came in dreams.

Jolly's whistle was comforting to hear. Morry leaned out of his
cushions to wave his hand. Jolly was going to school; when he came
whistling back, she would be here. It would be all over.

Morry leaned back again and closed his eyes. He had a way of closing
them when he did the hardest thinking,--and this was the very
hardest. Sometimes he forgot to open them, and dropped asleep. Even
in the morning one can be pretty tired.

"Is this the Dear Little Boy?"

He heard distinctly, but he did not open his eyes. He had learned
that opening your eyes drives beautiful things away.

The dream had come back. If he kept perfectly still and didn't
breathe, it might all begin again. He might feel--

He felt it. It folded him in like a warm shawl,--it brushed his
forehead, his cheek, his lips,--it made him dizzy with happiness. He
lay among his cushions, folded up in it. Oh, it made up,--it