“Uncle Isaac has made you his chief heir. You are the owner of Kingthorpe, my boy.”
Johnny Blossom took instant alarm. Should he be obliged to live at Kingthorpe in these big, solemn rooms?
“No,” said he hastily—and his clear young voice, though emphatic, had a note of childish fear—“no, I don’t want to, Uncle; I don’t want to stay here now that Uncle Isaac is dead”—
“How old are you?” broke in the Admiral.
“Eleven years old in four months and”—he began to reckon exactly how many days over there were before he should be eleven years old, but he did not have time because the Admiral lifted him suddenly and stood him on the table. Right up on the top of the handsome library table!
“Here he is, friends,” said the Admiral, “for any of you to see who have not known him before, though I think you all do know him well.”
A subdued murmur of assent ran through the room. Yes, indeed. Of course they all knew Johnny Blossom.
“And we must hope,” continued the Admiral, “that this boy will fulfil all the expectations that are centered in him”—
Johnny Blossom thought that the room had become stiller than ever. A strange, wonderful feeling swept over him. There was something serious, something that he alone was to be responsible for, something expected of him that no one, no other person, could help him with.
“And with honor to his family fill that responsible position in life which great wealth will oblige him to occupy.”