“You are always being pleased about something,” said Paul. “Anybody would think you had every thing you want.”
Nora was still for a moment; and then she said, “Oh, no, Paul! I want one thing a great deal: I think about it every night and every day.”
“What is it?” said Paul. “Can’t you beg for one?”
“No,” said she, “I couldn’t.”
“Why don’t you tell?” said Paul, speaking crossly.
“I don’t like to say it,” said Nora.
“Tell,” said Paul, giving her a push, “or I’ll strike you.”
Nora crept up close to him, and whispered, “I want somebody to call me darling.”
“You’re a ninny,” said Paul: “you don’t know any thing. I’ll call you darling. Darling, hold up the basket.”
“But that isn’t real,” said Nora: “you don’t know the right way; and the darling isn’t in your eyes,—not at all. Yesterday I met a little girl,—as little as I. Her shoes were pretty, and a kind lady was walking with her; and, when they came to a crossing, the lady said, ‘Come this way, my darling;’ and it was in her eyes. You couldn’t learn to say it right, Paul; for you are only a brother, and can’t speak so softly. Did we two have a mother ever, Paul?”