"Not--not _the_ one, I s'pose?" It frightened him to say it. But the Gracious One laughed again. "_The_ one, yes, you Dear Little Boy Whose Legs Won't Go! I thought I heard you calling me, so I came. And I've brought you something." To think of that! "Guess, you Dear Little Boy! What would you like it to be?" Oh, if he only dared! He swallowed to get up courage. Then he ventured timidly. "A Rec-om-pense." It was out. "Oh, you Guesser--you little Guesser! You've guessed the second time!" Was that what it was like? Something you couldn't see at all, just feel,--that folded you in like a warm shawl,--that brushed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth,--that made you dizzy with happiness? You lay folded up in it and knew that it _made up_. Never mind about the sorrowful, limp legs under the bedclothes. They seemed so far away that you almost forgot about them. They might have been somebody else's, while you lay in the warm, sweet Rec-om-pense. "Will--will it last?" he breathed. "Always, Morry." The Gracious Step-one knew his name! "Then Jolly didn't know this kind,--we never s'posed there was a kind like this! Real Ones must be like this." And while he lay in the warm shawl, in the soft haze of the night-lamp, he seemed to fall asleep, and, before he knew, it was morning. Ellen had come. "Up with you, Master Morris! There's great doings to-day. Have you forgot who's coming?" Ellens are stupid. "She's come." But Ellen did not hear, and went on getting the bath ready. If she had heard, it would only have meant quinine or aconite and belladonna to drive away feverishness. For Ellens are very watchful. "They'll be here most as soon as I can get you up 'n' dressed. I'm going to wheel you to the front winder--" "No!" Morry cried, sharply; "I mean, thank you, no. I'd rather be by the back window where--where I can watch for Jolly." Homely, freckled, familiar Jolly,--he needed something freckled and homely and familiar. The old dread had come back in the wake of the beautiful dream,--for it had been a dream. Ellen had waked him up. A boy would like to have his father come home in the sunshine, and the sun was shining. They would come walking up the path to the front-door through it,--with it warm and welcoming on their faces. But it would only be Dadsy and a step-one,--Jolly's kind, most likely. Jolly's kind was pretty,--_she_ might be pretty. But she would not come smiling and creeping out of the dark with a halo over her head. That kind came in dreams. Jolly's whistle was comforting to hear. Morry leaned out of his cushions to wave his hand. Jolly was going to school; when he came whistling back, she would be here. It would be all over. Morry leaned back again and closed his eyes. He had a way of closing them when he did the hardest thinking,--and this was the very hardest. Sometimes he forgot to open them, and dropped asleep. Even in the morning one can be pretty tired. "Is this the Dear Little Boy?"