"Yes, yes—burning!" says Mr. Dysart, whose toe is not unconscious of a corn.
"Ah! I knew you'd like it," says. Tommy. "Now go on; give us our rice—a little rice and a lot of jam."
"Is that what your mother does, too?" asks Mr. Dysart, meanly it must be confessed, but his toe is very bad still. The silence that follows his question and the look of the two downcast little faces is, however, punishment enough.
"Well, so be it," says he. "But even if we do finish the jam—I'm awfully fond of it myself—we must promise faithfully not to be disagreeable about it; not to be ill, that is——"
"Ill! We're never ill," says Tommy, valiantly, whereupon they make an end of the jam in no time.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower, Its blush so bright—its thorns so many."
There is no mistake in the joy with which Felix parts from his companions after luncheon. He breathes afresh as he sees them tearing up the staircase to get ready for their afternoon walk, nurse puffing and panting behind them.