to me manfully. "I am a
cad," he said in distress, "for when the ball was in the air I prayed."
He had prayed that I should miss the catch, and as I think I have
already told you, it is considered unfair in the Gardens to pray for
victory.

My splendid David! He has the faults of other little boys, but he has
a noble sense of fairness. "We shall call it a no-ball, David," I said
gravely.

I suppose the suspense of the reader is now painful, and therefore I
shall say at once that David won the match with two lovely fours, the
one over my head and the other to leg all along the ground. When I came
back from fielding this last ball I found him embracing his bat, and
to my sour congratulations he could at first reply only with hysterical
sounds. But soon he was pelting home to his mother with the glorious
news.

And that is how we let Barbara in.

XXVI. The Dedication

It was only yesterday afternoon, dear reader, exactly three weeks after
the birth of Barbara, that I finished the book, and even then it was
not quite finished, for there remained the dedication, at which I set
to elatedly. I think I have never enjoyed myself more; indeed, it is my
opinion that I wrote the book as an excuse for writing the dedication.

"Madam" (I wrote wittily), "I have no desire to exult over you, yet I
should show a lamentable obtuseness to the irony of things were I not
to dedicate this little work to you. For its inception was yours, and
in your more ambitious days you thought to write the tale of the little
white bird yourself. Why you so early deserted the nest is not for me
to inquire. It now appears that you were otherwise occupied. In fine,
madam, you chose the lower road, and contented yourself with obtaining
the Bird. May I point out, by presenting you with this dedication, that
in the meantime I am become the parent of the Book? To you the shadow,
to me the substance. Trusting that you will accept my little offering in
a Christian spirit, I am, dear madam," etc.

It was heady work, for the saucy words showed their design plainly
through the varnish, and I was re-reading in an ecstasy, when, without
warning, the door burst open and a little boy entered, dragging in a
faltering lady.

"Father," said David, "this is mother."

Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to the
electric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, as was very
fitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for the fi