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Updated: May 22, 2025
She could see Blake, out upon the broad lawn, playing with the child that he loved, boyish, natural, whole-souled, with all the enthusiasm unspoiled that God gives not to many who are grown. "Tom!" she called. "Yes?" he answered. "Will you come here, to us, for a moment? Let Muriel stay with Mawkins." "Right, oh!" he called, cheerily.
Mawkins and I are dreadfully worried about her." "What's the matter with mother?" he asked, quickly. "Tell me!" The child shook her head. "She cries most all the time," she replied. "And when I ask her what the matter is, she just shakes her head and says, 'Nothing, dearie. Mother's tired. But people don't cry because they're tired, do they, daddy?" He did not answer.
It had come to his lips, as a parable; because of the way he felt toward the child that was not his; because to her it would never have meant anything; and because of the things inside that had struggled for outlet so long. He wondered if she had heard, and hearing, had understood.... He could not tell.... She spoke to Muriel. "Run in to Mawkins, dear," she instructed.
At length he found words: "How did you come here, little sweetheart?" he asked. "I runned away," she returned. "I was in the Park, with Mawkins. I left her while she was talking to a p'liceman.... Oh, daddy, dear! When are we coming home? I miss you so much!" The woman moved forward, eyes upon the kneeling, soul-torn man; and upon the little child that was his. "Another advocate!" she said.
Lithely, the mother, stooping, lifted her from the chair, held her close for a tiny minute and then, kissing her, set her down upon the floor. "Run along, dearie," she directed. "Tell Mawkins to get you dressed." She watched the graceful, pretty child until she vanished through the door. Slowly she walked to the window.
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