"Was his name Charming?" I asked.
"His mother named him," Abram said, "with a name that she had picked out of Novel's works, which she was forever and 'tarnally reading."
"What day of the month is it, Verry?"
"Third of October."
"What happened a year ago to-day?"
"Arthur fell off the roof of the wood-house."
"Verry," he cried, "you needn't tell my sister of that; now she knows about my scar. You tell everything; she does not. You have scars," he whispered to me; "they look red sometimes. May I put my finger on your cheek?"
I took his hand, and rubbed his fingers over the cuts; they were not deep, but they would never go away.
"I wish mine were as nice; it is only a little hole under my hair. Soldiers ought to have long scars, made with great big swords, and I am a soldier, ain't I, Cassy?"
"Have I heard you sing, Cassy?" asked father. "Come, let us have some music."