"Maurie," she whispered.
The crying stopped.
"Maurie," she repeated, "you are crying."
He admitted it--sadly; they had found him out. Now they would think
he was a baby. That was the inevitable accusation in the mind of these
people who were grown up--in the mind of every one, except his mother.
"But I'm not a baby!" he exclaimed.
Sally knelt down by the side of his bed. "Who said you were a baby?"
she whispered.
"You were just going to."
"No, I wasn't. I don't think you are a baby. I cry sometimes."
"Do you?" There was a thin note of amazement in his voice. "What do
you cry for?"
"Oh, lots of things. What do you?"
"For mummy--it's so cold in bed without mummy."
"Do you sleep with mummy, then?" she asked, and she slid a warm arm
around his sturdy little neck.
"Yes--always. Mummy's so warm and she lies so tight. Your arm's
warm--I like your arm." He felt it with his fingers. "What's that?"
he asked suddenly.
"What's what?" said Sally.
"Something wet fell on the back of my hand. Why, it's you--it's you.
You're crying. Aren't you? You're crying. Oh, I wonder if you're a
baby. I don't see why you should be, if you don't think I am.
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