Suppose!—­suppose they didn’t come!  He had waited so long that he felt he could not bear that, and his attention slid at once from such finality to the dust motes in the bluish sunlight coming in:  Thrusting his hand up, he tried to catch some.  Bella ought to have dusted that piece of air!  But perhaps they weren’t dust—­only what sunlight was made of, and he looked to see whether the sunlight out of doors was the same.  It was not.  He had said he would stay quiet in the hall, but he simply couldn’t any more; and crossing the gravel of the drive he lay down on the grass beyond.  Pulling six daisies he named them carefully, Sir Lamorac, Sir Tristram, Sir Lancelot, Sir Palimedes, Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and fought them in couples till only Sir Lamorac, whom he had selected for a specially stout stalk, had his head on, and even he, after three encounters, looked worn and waggly.  A beetle was moving slowly in the grass, which almost wanted cutting.  Every blade was a small tree, round whose trunk the beetle had to glide.  Little Jon stretched out Sir Lamorac, feet foremost, and stirred the creature up.  It scuttled painfully.  Little Jon laughed, lost interest, and sighed.  His heart felt empty.  He turned over and lay on his back.  There was a scent of honey from the lime trees in flower, and in the sky the blue was beautiful, with a few white clouds which looked and perhaps tasted like lemon ice.  He could hear Bob playing:  “Way down upon de Suwannee ribber” on his concertina, and it made him nice and sad.  He turned over again and put his ear to the ground—­Indians could hear things coming ever so far—­but he could hear nothing—­only the concertina!  And almost instantly he did hear a grinding sound, a faint toot.  Yes! it was a car—­coming—­coming!  Up he jumped.  Should he wait in the porch, or rush upstairs, and as they came in, shout:  “Look!” and slide slowly down the banisters, head foremost?  Should he?  The car turned in at the drive.  It was too late!  And he only waited, jumping up and down in his excitement.  The car came quickly, whirred, and stopped.  His father got out, exactly like life.  He bent down and little Jon bobbed up—­they bumped.  His father said,

“Bless us!  Well, old man, you are brown!” Just as he would; and the sense of expectation—­of something wanted—­bubbled unextinguished in little Jon.  Then, with a long, shy look he saw his mother, in a blue dress, with a blue motor scarf over her cap and hair, smiling.  He jumped as high as ever he could, twined his legs behind her back, and hugged.  He heard her gasp, and felt her hugging back.  His eyes, very dark blue just then, looked into hers, very dark brown, till her lips closed on his eyebrow, and, squeezing with all his might, he heard her creak and laugh, and say: 

“You are strong, Jon!”

He slid down at that, and rushed into the hall, dragging her by the hand.