"Not at present, my love."
"I wish I could have my pony; why can't I have my pony, mamma?"
"Because,—because—the pony is sold, Sidney."
"Who sold it?"
"Your uncle."
"He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is he not? But can't I have another pony? It would be so nice, this fine weather!"
"Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it: but you shall have a ride this week! Yes," continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, in excuse of the extravagance, "he does not look well: poor child! he must have exercise."
"A ride!—oh! that is my own kind mamma!" exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands. "Not on a donkey, you know!—a pony. The man down the street, there, lets ponies. I must have the white pony with the long tail. But, I say, mamma, don't tell Philip, pray don't; he would be jealous."
"No, not jealous, my dear; why do you think so?"
"Because he is always angry when I ask you for anything. It is very unkind in him, for I don't care if he has a pony, too,—only not the white one."