“I wanted to see the time; I—­I looked out, I—­I heard you playing, Mum; I—­I ate my macaroon.”  But he was growing slowly comforted; and the instinct to excuse his fear revived within him.

“Mother Lee went round in me and got all fiery,” he mumbled.

“Well, Jon, what can you expect if you eat macaroons after you’ve gone to bed?”

“Only one, Mum; it made the music ever so more beautiful.  I was waiting for you—­I nearly thought it was to-morrow.”

“My ducky, it’s only just eleven now.”

Little Jon was silent, rubbing his nose on her neck.

“Mum, is Daddy in your room?”

“Not to-night.”

“Can I come?”

“If you wish, my precious.”

Half himself again, little Jon drew back.

“You look different, Mum; ever so younger.”

“It’s my hair, darling.”

Little Jon laid hold of it, thick, dark gold, with a few silver threads.

“I like it,” he said:  “I like you best of all like this.”

Taking her hand, he had begun dragging her towards the door.  He shut it as they passed, with a sigh of relief.

“Which side of the bed do you like, Mum?”

“The left side.”

“All right.”

Wasting no time, giving her no chance to change her mind, little Jon got into the bed, which seemed much softer than his own.  He heaved another sigh, screwed his head into the pillow and lay examining the battle of chariots and swords and spears which always went on outside blankets, where the little hairs stood up against the light.

“It wasn’t anything, really, was it?” he said.

From before her glass his mother answered: 

“Nothing but the moon and your imagination heated up.  You mustn’t get so excited, Jon.”

But, still not quite in possession of his nerves, little Jon answered boastfully: 

“I wasn’t afraid, really, of course!” And again he lay watching the spears and chariots.  It all seemed very long.

“Oh!  Mum, do hurry up!”

“Darling, I have to plait my hair.”

“Oh! not to-night.  You’ll only have to unplait it again to-morrow.  I’m sleepy now; if you don’t come, I shan’t be sleepy soon.”

His mother stood up white and flowey before the winged mirror:  he could see three of her, with her neck turned and her hair bright under the light, and her dark eyes smiling.  It was unnecessary, and he said: 

“Do come, Mum; I’m waiting.”

“Very well, my love, I’ll come.”

Little Jon closed his eyes.  Everything was turning out most satisfactory, only she must hurry up!  He felt the bed shake, she was getting in.  And, still with his eyes closed, he said sleepily:  “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

He heard her voice say something, felt her lips touching his nose, and, snuggling up beside her who lay awake and loved him with her thoughts, he fell into the dreamless sleep, which rounded off his past.