As soon as Dick had finished he took her out into the dreary little
garden and tried to pacify her. She was generally good with him, but
the heat, and teething, had made her fretful, and he had to walk up and
down the cinder path till his arms ached almost beyond bearing. She
went to sleep at last, and Dick sat down and took a tattered book from
his pocket and began to read once more the story of Richard the King.
It was the story that he loved best in the history lessons, for his own
name was Richard Hart Crosby, and the fancy had come into his life like
a sunbeam, that he might be Richard Lionheart too.
There were no books in the Fowleys' kitchen, and none of the children
went to Sunday school regularly. Just for a week or two before the
annual treat, or Christmas tree, they would go in great force, but Dick
could not be spared.
But he had one other little book that was kept as a hidden
treasure--his mother's Bible, that she had left to him. And in that he
had learned how to be a true Lionheart and a good soldier of Jesus
Christ. And every day he managed to read a few verses at least.
Now, as the sultry afternoon wore away, and the baby still slept, he
thought again and again of the discovery he had made, that he did not
really belong to the Fowleys.
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