If I could only have a mother, that's what I want
worst, a mother to kiss me every day, an' be good to me that way, like
mothers are, you know; if I could only jest have that, I wouldn't want
nothin' else, not never any more."
The man turned his face away.
"And wouldn't you like to have a father too?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, I would; but I _could_ git along without a father, a real
father. Uncle Billy's been a kind o' father to me; but I ain't never
had no mother, nor no sister; an' that's what I want now, an" I want
'em very bad. Seems, sometimes, jes' as if I _couldn't_ wait; jes' as
if I couldn't stan' it no longer 'thout 'em. Don't--don't you s'pose
the things we can't have is the things we want worst?"
"Yes, my boy: yes. You've spoken a truth as old as the ages. That
which I myself would give my fortune for I can never have. I mean my
little boy who--who died. I cannot have him back. His name too was
Ralph."
For a few moments there was silence in the screen-room. The child was
awed by the man's effort to suppress his deep emotion.
At last Ralph said, rising:--
"Well, I mus' go now an' tell Uncle Billy."
Mr. Burnham rose in his turn.
"Yes," he said, "you'll be late for the circus if you don't hurry.
What! you're not going? Oh! yes, you _must_ go. Here, here's a silver
dollar to add to your identity fund; now you can afford to spend the
quarter. Yes," as the boy hesitated to accept the proffered money,
"yes, you _must_ take it; you can pay it back, you know, when--when
you come to your own.
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