The man could scarcely get that beloved name from between his lips.
"Yes, Tessibel is my mummy," said the boy. "You know my mummy, and my Uncle Forrie?"
"Yes," assented Frederick, sitting down. "Come here and let me tell you all about your mother's beautiful curls."
Boy hitched nearer the tall stranger. He was drawn in some unknown way toward this man whose arms were out-held to him. Then, suddenly, he walked straight into them, his eyes still very grave, still very questioning.
The moment Frederick touched the little one he felt the world was his. He forgot Waldstricker, forgot Madelene, forgot everything, but his elf-like son within his cuddling grasp. He touched his lips to the little face.
"Oh, I've wanted to see you so," he murmured.
"Why didn't you come, then?" demanded Boy.
"I was away," said Frederick.
"My Uncle Forrie goes away, too. When he came home yesterday, he brought me a beautiful engine--it goes on wheels. I love my Uncle Forrie."
"Could you love me, dear?" breathed Frederick.
"Yes, oh, yes. I love everybody. God, too. So does Mummy. And Deacon, he's my owl, and An--"
Boy's lips closed on the nearly spoken word. He suddenly remembered the daily lessons he'd had from his mother never to mention Andy's name to any one; that, if he did, a big man would come and take his darling Andy away. No, Boy couldn't stand that. He wouldn't say anything about Andy, not even to this strangely attractive man.
"What were you going to say, boy?" petitioned Frederick.
"Nothin'. Just nothin'."
And the father was satisfied, satisfied not to talk, glad to have his son so heavenly close. The long years of his exile were slipping away. The nerve-racking yearning of tedious days and yet more tedious, sleepless nights was partially quieted. His son, so long, merely, the pulseless image of his dreams, had become a breathing reality, and the child was the living link between its mother and himself. The longer he held the little one, the more intense grew his desire for Tess. At length this demand urged him to ask, "Where's your mother?"
"She's home, just up there in that house. She's working."
"You haven't any father?" the man queried at last. A lump rose in his throat and choked him. What had the child been told about him, he wondered.
"Oh, yes, I have somewhere's, but I got another up in the sky, away back in the clouds, Mummy says. And he's awful glad when I'm good, and he cries like anything, when I'm bad. So I try to be good, and sometimes I'm gooder'n gold."