"Mother!" he said in a low, tense voice. "_What_ told you?"
"Why--just bein' your mother, I guess. I was wonderin'---"
"Wondering what?"
"Whether some day you'd say something."
"I wanted to. I wanted to talk to you about--about it all. But I was
afraid it might make you sad. I like to think of you always happy,
dearest. And I couldn't bear to be the one to chase away your smile I
love so much."
"It's thinking of you helps me to smile, Petie," said his mother,
reverting to the pet name of his childhood as she stroked his smooth,
black hair. "If 'twasn't for knowing I've got you--and your loving
me--I do believe I could never smile."
"You're not unhappy?" Peter cried out, startled. It would be a
dreadful pain to know that the placid reserve of this sweet, loved
woman meant unhappiness.
"Not while I have _you_. But---"
"You must go on, dear. Tell me what you feel. We're here together, all
alone in the night, talking out our hearts. It seems as if it was
meant to be--my finding you waiting here."
"I guess maybe it _was_, Petie. Something kind of said to me, 'You
wait up for him. He wants you.' And I--why, I always want you, boy.
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