“Will you not go up to the nursery?” cried Lucy, in a flutter.
“No, dear,” replied the other, faintly, but as cool as a marble slab; “you go; cast some of your oil upon those ever-troubled waters and then come back and let us try once more.”
Miss Fountain heard but half this sentence; she was already gliding up the stairs. She opened the nursery door, and there stood in the middle of the room “Original Sin.” Its name after the flesh was Master Reginald. It was half-past six, had been baptized in church, after which every child becomes, according to polemic divines of the day, “a little soul of Christian fire” until it goes to a public school. And there it straddled, two scarlet cheeks puffed out with rage, soft flaxen hair streaming, cerulean eyes glowing, the poker grasped in two chubby fists. It had poked a window in vague ire, and now threatened two females with extinction if they riled it any more.
The two grown-up women were discovered, erect, but flat, in distant corners, avoiding the bayonet and trusting to their artillery.
“Wicked boy!”
“Naughty boy!” (grape.)
“Little ruffian!” etc.
And hints as to the ultimate destination of so sanguinary a soul (round shot).
“Ah! here's miss. Oh, miss, we are so glad you are come up; don't go anigh him, miss; he is a tiger.”
Miss Fountain smiled, and went gracefully on one knee beside him. This brought her angelic face level with the fallen cherub's. “What is the matter, dear?” asked she, in a tone of soft pity.
The tiger was not prepared for this: he dropped his poker and flung his little arm round his cousin's neck.
“I love YOU. Oh! oh! oh!”