Clif was quite pale.
“[Wants ze boat,—give us the boat.]”
“I have been three days making it,” he said; “it is my very own.”
“Well,” she returned wearily, “it is sweeter to make things for other people’s enjoyment than our own.”
But Clif was far too young and human to agree with this.
“It is mine,” he said obstinately, “my very own; I [59] ]won’t let them have it—let them play with their own toys.”
“Clif,” said the mother, and called him to her knee when she had lain baby face downward for a little time—she put her arm round him and looked at him with earnest, grieving eyes—“Clif, it breaks my heart to see you growing like this—I cannot have it—give the boat to your brothers for half-an-hour.”
Passion surged in the boy; a wave of red ran up into his very hair.
“You always say that—I never have my things to myself; when a thing’s mine, it’s mine—it isn’t any one’s unless I say,” he burst out excitedly. “I don’t take their things; they oughtn’t to take mine.”