"Most pathetic," said Miss Chase, with a twinkle in her dark eyes. "I think I begin to see where Mr. Cochrane gets his revolutionary sentiments from."
"Then in sleep at night de nigger dreams ob home,
Where de sun really shines and de frosts nebber come,
Where we'd plenty to eat, and a little hut of logs,
And we hadn't got to beg for our bread like de dogs.
Oho you and de banjo."
Bob's voice became more and more plaintive; he sat in a drooping attitude with his head on one side as he finished,—
"But it ain't no good all dis singin' out of tune,
For we can't get warm, tho' they say it's hot for June;
It's certain for darkies dis is not de place,
Where eben de sun am ashamed to show his face.
Oho you and de banjo."
"So that is your opinion of England, is it?" asked Miss Chase. "Well, I am not surprised you don't want to come, then."
"But of course it is all stuff, and nothing but a silly old darkie song," said Eustace.
"You wait till you get there, young man," said Bob, still with an air of mock gloom about him; "you'll remember my warning then. It is so cold in England the natives have their windows glued in to keep out the air, and they have front doors as thick as walls, all studded with nails and brass knockers."
"But what are the brass knockers for?" asked Nesta. "They wouldn't keep you warm."
"Certainly not," was the answer; "the brass knockers are for the purpose of waking the people inside the house, who are always asleep with the cold—like dormice."
"Mother," demanded Eustace, "do you think he ought to have any tea after that? He hasn't done penance, and he isn't a bit sorry. He is making it worse and worse."