Белая птичка
An Interloper
”
Ithinkhehadnighfallenasleepagainwhenhestirredandsaid,“Isitgoingonnow?”
“What?”
“Theadventure.”
“Yes,David.”
Perhapsthisdisturbedhim,forby-and-byIhadtoinquire,“Youarenotfrightened,areyou?”
“AmInot?”heansweredpolitely,andIknewhishandwasgropinginthedarkness,soIputoutmineandheheldontightlytoonefinger.
“Iamnotfrightenednow,”hewhispered.
“Andthereisnothingelseyouwant?”
“Istherenot?”heagainaskedpolitely.“Areyousurethere’snot?”headded.
“Whatcanitbe,David?”
“Idon’ttakeupverymuchroom,”thefar-awayvoicesaid.
“Why,David,”saidI,sittingup,“doyouwanttocomeintomybed?”
“MothersaidIwasn’ttowantitunlessyouwanteditfirst,”hesqueaked.
“ItiswhatIhavebeenwantingallthetime,”saidI,andthenwithoutmoreadothelittlewhitefigureroseandflungitselfatme.Fortherestofthenighthelayonmeandacrossme,andsometimeshisfeetwereatthebottomofthebedandsometimesonthepillow,buthealwaysretainedpossessionofmyfinger,andoccasionallyhewokemetosaythathewassleepingwithme.Ihadnotagoodnight.Ilaythinking.
Ofthislittleboy,who,inthemidstofhisplaywhileIundressedhim,hadsuddenlyburiedhisheadonmyknees.
Ofthewomanwhohadbeenforhimwhocouldbesufficientlydaring.
OfDavid’sdrippinglittleforminthebath,andhowwhenIessayedtocatchhimhehadslippedfrommyarmslikeatrout
