He was saved once more. He said to himself that never again would he permit his soul to be disturbed by any threat of old Ame’s.
Constance’s hand descended into her pocket and drew out a hard paper packet, which she clapped on to her son’s head.
“Oh, mother!” He pretended that she had hurt him, and then he opened the packet. It contained Congleton butterscotch, reputed a harmless sweetmeat.
“Good!” he cried, “good! Oh! Thanks, mother.”
“Now don’t begin eating them at once.”
“Just one, mother.”
“No! And how often have I told you to keep your feet off that fender. See how it’s bent. And it’s nobody but you.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s no use being sorry if you persist in doing it.”
“Oh, mother, I had such a funny dream!”