As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me in her arms and kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly privileged little fellow than a monarch⁠—or something like that; for my later understanding comes, I am sensible, to my aid here.

“What does that mean?” I asked him, over her shoulder.

He patted me on the head; but somehow, I didn’t like him or his deep voice, and I was jealous that his hand should touch my mother’s in touching me⁠—which it did. I put it away, as well as I could.

“Oh, Davy!” remonstrated my mother.

“Dear boy!” said the gentleman. “I cannot wonder at his devotion!”

I never saw such a beautiful colour on my mother’s face before. She gently chid me for being rude; and, keeping me close to her shawl, turned to thank the gentleman for taking so much trouble as to bring her home. She put out her hand to him as she spoke, and, as he met it with his own, she glanced, I thought, at me.