a still darkness was creeping into the big,
bright room. The Little Lover nestled among the cushions of the sofa,
spent with excitement and loss, and that new, dread feeling that made
him hate Uncle Larry. He did not know its name, and it was better so.
But he knew the pain of it.

"Why, Reggie! Why, you poor little man, you're asleep! And I have
been sitting there singing all this time! And it grew quite dark,
didn't it? Oh, poor little man, poor little man, I had forgotten you
were here! I'm glad you can't hear me say it!"

Yes, it was better. But he would have like to feel Her cool cheek
against his cheek; he would have felt a little relief in his
desolate, bitter heart if he could see how gentle Her face was and
the beautiful look there was in Her soft eyes. But perhaps--if She
was not looking at him--if it was at Uncle Larry-- No, no, Little
Lover; it is better to sleep on and not to know.

It was Uncle Larry who carried him home, asleep still, and laid him
gently on his own little bed. Uncle Larry's bearded face was shining
in the dark room like a star. The tumult of joy in the man's heart
clamored for utterance. Uncle Larry felt the need of telling some
one. So, because he could not help it, he leaned down and shook the
Little Lover gently.

"You little foolish chap, do you know what you have lost? You were
right there--you might have heard Her when She said it! You might
have peeped between your fingers and seen Her face--angels in Heaven!
Her face!--with the love-light in it. You poor little chap! you poor
little chap! You were right there all the time and you didn't know.
And you don't know now when I tell you I'm the happiest man alive!
You lie there like a little log. Well, sleep away, little chap. What
does it matter to you?"

It was the Little Lover's own guardian-angel who kept him from waking
up, but Uncle Larry did not know. He took off the small, dusty shoes
and loosened the little clothes, with a strange new tenderness in his
big fingers. The familiar little figure seemed to have put on a
certain sacredness for having lain on Her cushions and been touched
by Her hands. And She had kissed the little chap. Uncle Larry stooped
and found the place with his lips.

The visit seemed like a dream to the Little Lover, next morning. How
could it have been real when he could not remember coming home at
all? He _hadn't_ come home,--so of course he had never gone. It was a
dream,--still--where was the Trea