“Who is he, mother?” he asked, turning round and gazing at Sir Reginald with the facsimile of his own eyes—in fact the child’s face was such a striking reproduction of his own that he himself could not help seeing the likeness. He was a splendid boy, of whom his father, were he a king, might well be proud.
Leaning his upright little person against Alice, and throwing back his head with a proud gesture very entertaining in one so young, he repeated, as he looked at Sir Reginald unflinchingly:
“Who is he?”
“He is your father,” she faltered. “Go and speak to him, Maurice.”
She could not refrain a glance of motherly pride as she pushed her boy with gentle force towards his other parent. But Maurice, who had inherited all his father’s deliberation and decision of character, calmly remarked:
“He is not my father. My father,” with much pride, and hands stuck in the belt of his blouse, “is a soldier, and rides a horse with a long tail, and wears a sword and a red coat, and fights people. You,” said he, nodding his head towards Sir Reginald, “are just like anybody else.”
“Come here, sir,” said his father, stretching out an arm; and, much to everyone’s amazement, the boy went quietly over and stood at his knee.
“I am a soldier; but I have got a holiday. You don’t know what that is yet, do you? I have done with soldiers for awhile, and have put away my sword and my coat; but I’ll show them to you some day, if you like.”
“Will you?” said the child with awe-struck eyes; “and will you lend me your sword to play with, for I’m going to be a soldier too some day?”
“Are you indeed? I’m afraid I can’t lend you my sword; but perhaps I might buy you a little one instead. Suppose you come and sit on my knee and tell me all about yourself?”