“You didn’t kiss me. You darsn’t. You ain’t my mother,” panted the Boy, between the kisses. He could not keep up with them with the back of his brown little hand.
“But I am, dear. I’m your mother,” cooed the Mother, proud of herself.
After a while she let him go because she pitied him. Then she stood up, stern and straight, and demanded things of these other two.
“How came you here, Mary? I thought you were going on a visit. Is this the way you see your publishers, William?”
“I—I couldn’t wait,” murmured the Impatient Aunt. “I wanted to hear him shout. You know how that is, Bess.” But there was no apology in the Father’s tone. He put out his hand and caught the Boy as he darted past, and squared him about, with his sturdy little front to his mother. The Father was smiling in a tender way.
“He is my publisher,” he said. “I would rather he published my best works than any one else. He will pay the highest royalty.”
And the Mother, when she slipped across to them, kissed not the Boy alone, but them both.
The next day they took the Boy back in triumph, the three of them and the little dog, and after that there was litter and noise and joy as of old.
Chapter III