Ambrose’s face gleamed with pleasure.
“That would be nice,” he said, “but those were my strawberry ration for to-day. My ration is a baker’s dozen of strawberries, which is thirteen, you know.”
Hugh’s face fell.
“I see,” he said, “I suppose I’ve had my ration, too. Besides, I expect it’s time for me to dress for dinner.”
“Then I shall come in, too. I come down to dinner now, Uncle Hugh. At least, I sit with papa and mamma while they have theirs, until it strikes eight.”
The boy ran on in front of them, leaving his father and Hugh behind.
“The two children are devoted to each other,” said their father. “And they vie with each other in kindly deeds. The boy gave all his strawberries for the day to the sick woman. It was entirely his own idea, too; he asked me if he might.”
“I should have told him not to jaw, but eat them himself,” said Hugh, in a sudden access of internal revolt.
Canon Alington looked at him a moment in silence.