“Yes, darling, I will indeed. I will, my precious. I will charge myself with the welfare of your little friend, and he shall not want books, nor advice, nor anything that he may require, if he wishes to cultivate his mind,” said Marcel de Crespigney, who was absolutely without any prejudices of rank.
“And oh! will you love David Lindsay, and let him love you, like I do?”
“Like you do? What do you mean, my child?”
“Like I love you! Will you love him and let him love you, like I love you?” she pleaded, laying her soft cheek against his face—a frequent caress of hers.
He kissed her for all reply.
It was too late that Friday evening to see her playmate. She had been reading with him all that afternoon, and had taken leave of him before she knew that she was to go to school. Now she felt sure that he had gone home, and she should not have a chance to see him and tell him until the next day.
Still, she was thinking more of her playmate than of any one else, simply because he had more need of her than any one else. So she went up to her little bookcase and took down all her books and packed them in a trunk that would hold about twenty-five or thirty miscellaneous volumes, comprising nearly all of Peter Parley’s and other juvenile works, that were held in great favor at that time. With these she put in two slates, a dozen graded copy-books, pens, pencils, india-rubber, blotting-papers, inkstand, and every requisite of the school-desk that she could find.
Then she locked it and called up old Laban, and said to him:
“I want you to shoulder this and take it down to the boat-house for me.”
The old servant looked at the trunk and looked at the child, scratched his head, and declared: