"Of course, it is your home. Isn't your name on the front door?"
"Oh yes," he said, smiling through his tears; "I forgot that," and the remembrance seemed to give him confidence in the future.
Mrs. Gano was looking hastily about for some excuse for bringing him into the room.
"Here is a book that belonged to your great-grandfather, called Plutarch's Lives. You will read it when you are older, and remember it was my parting present after your first visit."
"Oh, thank you," he said, brushing his sleeve across his eyes; and they went out, and Ethan got into the carriage. "Oh, dear me, my fireflies!" he shouted, suddenly, as the driver was closing the door. "I shall need them so awfully—I mean so pertickly—in Boston"; and he scrambled out and rushed up to his bedroom.
"What does the child mean?" asked Mrs. Gano.
"It's all right," said Aunt Valeria; "something I gave him. I'll tell you afterwards."
Ethan came tumbling down-stairs in the buff middle of the carpet—anywhere, indifferent for once to Yaffti and his possible revenge.
"Good-bye," he called back from the carriage-window. "Thank you, ma'am, for Plutarch."
"Keep him covered," was Mrs. Gano's unemotional rejoinder as they drove away.