Many contingencies were considered in the making, but the suit would fit Tommy by and by if he grew, or it shrunk, and they did not pass each other in the night.  When proud Tommy first put on his suit the most unexpected shyness overcame him, and having set off vaingloriously he stuck on the stair and wanted to hide.  Shovel, who had been having an argument with his old girl, came, all boastful bumps, to him, and Tommy just stood still with a self-conscious simper on his face.  And Shovel, who could have damped him considerably, behaved in the most honorable manner, initiating him gravely into the higher life, much as you show the new member round your club.

It was very risky to go back to Reddy, whom he had not seen for many weeks; but in trousers!  He could not help it.  He only meant to walk up and down her street, so that she might see him from the window, and know that this splendid thing was he; but though he went several times into the street, Reddy never came to the window.

The reason he had to wait in vain at Reddy’s door was that she was dead; she had been dead for quite a long time when Tommy came back to look for her.  You mothers who have lost your babies, I should be a sorry knave were I to ask you to cry now over the death of another woman’s child.  Reddy had been lent to two people for a very little while, just as your babies were, and when the time was up she blew a kiss to them and ran gleefully back to God, just as your babies did.  The gates of heaven are so easily found when we are little, and they are always standing open to let children wander in.

But though Reddy was gone away forever, mamma still lived in that house, and on a day she opened the door to come out, Tommy was standing there—­she saw him there waiting for Reddy.  Dry-eyed this sorrowful woman had heard the sentence pronounced, dry eyed she had followed the little coffin to its grave; tears had not come even when waking from illusive dreams she put out her hand in bed to a child who was not there; but when she saw Tommy waiting at the door for Reddy, who had been dead for a month, her bosom moved and she could cry again.

Those tears were sweet to her husband, and it was he who took Tommy on his knee in the room where the books were, and told him that there was no Reddy now.  When Tommy knew that Reddy was a deader he cried bitterly, and the man said, very gently, “I am glad you were so fond of her.”

“’T ain’t that,” Tommy answered with a knuckle in his eye, “’t ain’t that as makes me cry.”  He looked down at his trousers and in a fresh outburst of childish grief he wailed, “It’s them!”

Papa did not understand, but the boy explained.  “She can’t not never see them now,” he sobbed, “and I wants her to see them, and they has pockets!”

It had come to the man unexpectedly.  He put Tommy down almost roughly, and raised his hand to his head as if he felt a sudden pain there.