She wasn't
making silly fun and pretending. She really didn't know--because
she was different.
"It's liking very much. It's more," he explained. "My mother loves
ME. I--I LOVE you!" stoutly. "Yes, I LOVE you. That's why I kissed
you when you cried."
She was so uplifted, so overwhelmed with adoring gratitude that as
she knelt on the grass she worshipped him.
"I love YOU," she answered him. "I LOVE you--LOVE you!" And she
looked at him with such actual prayerfulness that he caught at her
and, with manly promptness, kissed her again-this being mere Nature.
Because he was eight years old and she was six her tears flashed
away and they both laughed joyously as they sat down on the grass
again to talk it over.
He told her all the pleasant things he knew about Mothers. The
world was full of them it seemed--full. You belong to them from
the time you were a baby. He had not known many personally because
he had always lived at Braemarnie, which was in the country in
Scotland. There were no houses near his home. You had to drive
miles and miles before you came to a house or a castle. He had not
seen much of other children except a few who lived at the Manse
and belonged to the minister. Children had fathers as well as
mothers. Fathers did not love you or take care of you quite as
much as Mothers--because they were men. But they loved you too.
His own father had died when he was a baby.
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