The boy hung his head and said nothing in reply.
Lady Bassett came to his assistance. “He will; he will. Don't say a word about the past. He is a good, brave, beautiful boy, and I adore him.”
“And I like you, mamma,” said Reginald graciously.
From that day the boy had a champion in Lady Bassett; and Heaven knows, she had no sinecure; poor Reginald's virtues were too eccentric to balance his faults for long together. His parents could not have a child lost in a wood every day; but good taste and propriety can be offended every hour when one is so young, active, and savage as Master Reginald.
He was up at five, and doing wrong all day.
Hours in the stables, learning to talk horsey, and smell dunghilly.
Hours in the village, gossiping and romping.
In good company, an owl.
In bad, or low company, a cricket, a nightingale, a magpie.
He was seen at a neighboring fair, playing the fiddle in a booth to dancing yokels, and receiving their pence.