that this splendid thing was he; but though he went several times into
the street, Reddy never came to the window.

The reason he had to wait in vain at Reddy's door was that she was dead;
she had been dead for quite a long time when Tommy came back to look for
her. You mothers who have lost your babies, I should be a sorry knave
were I to ask you to cry now over the death of another woman's child.
Reddy had been lent to two people for a very little while, just as your
babies were, and when the time was up she blew a kiss to them and ran
gleefully back to God, just as your babies did. The gates of heaven are
so easily found when we are little, and they are always standing open to
let children wander in.

But though Reddy was gone away forever, mamma still lived in that house,
and on a day she opened the door to come out, Tommy was standing
there--she saw him there waiting for Reddy. Dry-eyed this sorrowful
woman had heard the sentence pronounced, dry eyed she had followed the
little coffin to its grave; tears had not come even when waking from
illusive dreams she put out her hand in bed to a child who was not
there; but when she saw Tommy waiting at the door for Reddy, who had
been dead for a month, her bosom moved and she could cry again.

Those tears were sweet to her husband, and it was he who took Tommy on
his knee in the room where the books were, and told him that there was
no Reddy now. When Tommy knew that Reddy was a deader he cried bitterly,
and the man said, very gently, "I am glad you were so fond of her."

"'T ain't that," Tommy answered with a knuckle in his eye, "'t ain't
that as makes me cry." He looked down at his trousers and in a fresh
outburst of childish grief he wailed, "It's them!"