"Well, why couldn't he say so?" says Tommy, gruffly.
"I really think you had better bring me one of your own books," says Joyce. "I told you this would——"
"No," obstinately, "I like this. It sounds so nice and smoothly. Go on," says Tommy, giving her a nudge.
Joyce, with a sigh, reopens the volume, and gives herself up for lost. To argue with Tommy is always to know fatigue, and nothing else. One never gains anything by it.
"Well, do be quiet now, and listen," says she, protesting faintly.
"I'm listening like anything," says Tommy. And, indeed, now at last it seems as if he were.
So silent does he grow as his aunt reads on that you might have heard a mouse squeak. But for the low, soft tones of Joyce no smallest sound breaks the sweet silence of the day. Miss Kavanagh is beginning to feel distinctly flattered. If one can captivate the flitting fancies of a child by one's eloquent rendering of charming verse, what may one not aspire to? There must be something in her style if it can reduce a boy of seven to such a state of ecstatic attention, considering the subject is hardly such a one as would suit his tender years.
But Tommy was always thoughtful beyond his age. A dear, clever little fellow! So appreciative! Far, far beyond the average! He——
The mild sweetness of the spring evening and her own thoughts are broken in upon at this instant by the "dear, clever little fellow."
"He has just got to your waist now," says he, with an air of wild if subdued excitement.