“My isn’t your little man. Her said my was, but my isn’t; and my isn’t a beggar neither,” rejoined Tod, straightening up.
“Well, ’pon my word! if it isn’t the little fellow who wanted fifty cents one day, and I was in such a hurry—”
“Own-y-to-ny papas stop hurwying when their little boys ask weal hard,” persisted Tod.
The merchant’s lip quivered: there came to him so suddenly the touch of little fingers hidden away in the grave for more than twenty years, the sound of childish voices to which he had never answered “Nay.” He sat down on the steps and drew Tod to him.
“I used to love little boys,” he said, huskily, “but it’s so many years ago. Will you tell me your name, and come and dine with me some day?”
“But my shall be my own papa’s little boy.”
“Yes, yes; but you could come and see me because I haven’t any little boys. You shall have something nice.”
“Choc’late ca’mels and ice-cweam?”
“Yes, and I’ll send the carriage for you,—let me see, to-morrow. Wait a minute and I’ll write mamma a note.”
“Can’t Maybee come too?”