"Dr. Lavendar," she said, "you'll bring him back to me on Saturday?"
"Unless I steal him for myself," said Dr. Lavendar, twinkling at
David, who twinkled back, cozily understanding.
Helena stooped over him and kissed him; then took one of his reluctant
hands from its clasp about his knees and held it, patting it, and once
furtively kissing it, "Good-by, David. Saturday you'll be at home
again."
The child's face fell. His sigh was not personal; it only meant the
temporariness of all human happiness. Staring into the fire in sudden
melancholy, he said, "'By." But the next minute he sparkled into
excited joy, and jumped up to hang about her neck and whisper that in
Philadelphia he was going to buy a false-face for a present for Dr.
Lavendar; "or else a jew's-harp. He'll give it to me afterwards; and I
think I want a jew's-harp the most," he explained.
"David," Helena said in a whisper, putting her cheek down against his,
"Oh, David, won't you please, give me--'forty kisses'? I'm so--
lonely."
David drew back and looked hard into her face that quivered in spite
of the smile she had summoned to meet his eyes. It was a long look,
for a child; then suddenly, he put both arms around her neck in a
breathless squeeze. "One--two--three--four--" he began.
William King, coming in for his evening smoke, saw that quick embrace;
his face moved with pain, and he stepped back into the hall with some
word of excuse about his coat.
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