Chapter 14

SKY BLOSSOMS

David had learned a trick of loudly clacking his heels upon the walk to make it seem that he was no longer a little boy. With the picture held firmly in his hands he went strutting proudly at Mother's side when they fared forth this early morning for the Doctor's house.

The street was very still and smelled of yesterday's rain. In the moist hush and semi-darkness which precedes the dawn, the buildings were all silent and buried in mystery, and they gave back a distinct replication of David's footstep. In response to his question as to what other little boy was out of bed so early, Mother answered:--

"That is no one, David. What you hear is an echo."

"Why can't I see Echo?"

"One never does see him."

"Is he a fairy?"

"Rather."

Here ended the conversation. And now, as Mother and Son trudged onward in silence, a strange feeling came upon the little boy, for the world at this hour was so new to him. A distant milk wagon, resembling a block of shadow on wheels, went clattering over the pavement, and from time to time a man smoking a pipe and carrying a tin pail would pass by with long, swinging strides.

The upper air looked different, too. At one place a tall church spire, topped by a copper cross, was blazing with sunshine, and certain windows of the high buildings also began to flame. A pink cloud lay asleep in the blue lap of heaven, and there was a single star, like a pale drop of fire, that trembled up there as though it were about to fall.

"What is that for?" asked David.

"What do you mean, my son?"

"Up there, Mother--see! It is a queer eye. It winks at us."

"One of the flowers of heaven, little boy; that's what it is."

"Did you ever have any?"

"Oh, no, David, because they are so hard to get."

Miss Eastman felt that in the serene beauty of the morning there was something vaguely troubling. To think that all this loveliness of the clear dawn, all this freshness of the sweet air which to her and to David meant the joy of an exquisite fairyland, could yet mean to others only the beginning of another day of sorrow, of death, and squalid misery! How could it be possible that the children of Duck Town, those who should be as happy to-day and as full of health as this little boy of hers, were still held fast in the grip of terrifying disease?

All the same, it was not a pleasant prospect to think of leaving David with Dr. Redfield's housekeeper. As Miss Eastman considered the situation she was suddenly seized with cowardice. She did not want to go on to assist in the fight against contagion; she wanted to turn back, and she began to walk more slowly, loitering, regretting her resolution and seeking a pretext to retreat.

For all that, she presently arrived at the Doctor's house, and at the door-step she was greeted by Mrs. Botz, who appeared with a gay shawl over her head and a letter in her hand.

"Zo early yet!" the housekeeper exclaimed. "You yust save me some troubles. Herr Doctor say I am pleased to take you his letter."

"He wasn't expecting me, then?"

"_Ich weiss nicht._"

"He's waiting, isn't he? He hasn't gone, I hope."

"Ja, Herr Doctor he iss vendt."

"Oh, that is too bad!" Miss Eastman exclaimed with outward regret, with inward gratification. Her heroic purpose to help in the routing of disease from Duck Town had at least been postponed.

She tore open the envelope which Mrs. Botz had given her, as she began to read the brief communication, a slight puff of wind stirred the wet maple boughs overhead. From the drenched leaves a wee shower of liquid sparks came flashing down about her and the little boy. Some of these pattering drops were caught in the soft mesh of Miss Eastman's hair, where they trembled like rare jewels and scattered the morning sunlight into rainbow gleams.

"There they are Mother--sky-blossoms!" David called out. He clapped his hands gayly; he was greatly excited. "They have fallen down out of heaven, and you have caught some of them."

Mother said not a word. She seized David in her arms. Her eyes were wide open; they were as bright as the raindrops, and she was breathing ever so fast.

"This letter," she said, "this letter, little boy, is for you. Listen, David, only listen.... No; let us wait until we get home before we read our letters."

When, presently, they were safely back in the House of Happiness, this is what Mother read to her little boy on her lap:--

"'_To Mr. David Eastman_.

"'ESTEEMED SIR:--If you are in need of a father, I would like the job. Will you please file my application? And will you please ask your mother if you may have me? Ask her, David, if I may not live at your house. Tell her, David--tell her, my little boy, that I will be a good husband to her, and love her always.'"

The child took the written page from Mother's hand and looked at it knowingly.

"I have a letter too," she said, but she could scarcely speak; she was trembling so, and it seemed ever so hard for her to breathe.

But indeed and indeed, hers was not a letter to be proud of. It glowered; it smelled like a drug shop; it told her plainly that Duck Town was no business of hers; it told her to stay at home, to mind her own affairs and to go on being a good mother to her little boy. But one sentence, the one at the end, was quite different.

"Tell me," it said, "for I need very much to know; tell me whether David has not put my picture into your heart."

The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS U.S.A.

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