"Would I?" he asked doubtfully.
"Yes," I answered; "and though you are a happy little boy now, you would be still happier then. There is nothing that makes us happier than to love people very much and try to be kind to them."
"Even Briggs?" he inquired, thoughtfully.
"You should not talk of her like that," I said, trying not to smile. "She is really very fond of you, and very kind to you. If she was angry, it was because you were rude."
Chris moved impatiently. He did not like that view of the case. There was a pause, then: "Shall I tell you a story?" I asked. "I shall just have time before you go to your tea."
"I don't know," he answered, with some indifference. "I've heard them all lots of times. Briggs has told them to me often and often—'Jack the Giant-Killer', and 'Jack and the Beanstalk', and 'Red Riding-Hood', and 'Cinderella' ("I don't much like those two," he put in, with a touch of masculine contempt, "'cause they're all about girls"), and 'Hop o' my Thumb.' And the story of the Good Boy who had a cake, and gave it all away to the Blind Beggar and his dog, except a tiny, weeny piece for himself; and the Bad Boy who had a cake, and told a wicked story, and said there never was one, 'cause he didn't want anyone else to have it; and the Greedy Boy who had a cake, and ate it all up so fast he was dreadfully sick. Briggs has told them all to me, and she says there ain't no more stories to tell; leastways, if there are, she's never heard tell of them."
"If I were you I shouldn't say 'leastways', 'never heard tell', or 'ain't no more'," I remarked as he paused, out of breath.
"Why not?" he asked.
"They are not the expressions a gentleman uses," I answered.
"Does a lady?" he asked with curiosity; "'cause Briggs does."