His mother looked over his shoulder. "That same old fairy-book! Who would suppose you were twelve years old?"
"Thirteen," said Maso, coloring.
"So you are. But only two weeks ago. Never mind; you'll be a tall man yet—a great big thing striding about, whom I shall not care half so much for as I do for my little boy." She kissed him. "All your father's family are tall, and you look just like them."
Maso nestled closer as she stood beside him. "How did father look? I don't remember him much."
"Much? You don't remember him at all; he died when you were six months old—a little teenty baby."
"I say, mother, how long have we been over here?"
"I came abroad when you were not quite two."
"Aren't we ever going back?"
"If you could once see Coesville!" was Mrs. Roscoe's emphatic reply.