“I wish I could stay with you all day!” he said. “But your papa wants me in the bank. I must go.”
Clare had not had a good sight of the child, and was at a loss to think what must be her age. Her language, both in form and utterance, was partly precise and grown-up, and partly childish; but her wisdom was child-like—and that is the opposite both of precise and childish. It was the wisdom that comes of unity between thought and action.
“Is there anything I can do for you before I go?—for I must go,” said Clare.
“Who says must to you? Nurse says must to me.”
“Your papa says must to me.”
“If you didn’t say yes when papa said must, what would come next?”
“He would say, ‘Go out of my house, and never come in again.’”
“And would you do it?”
“I must: the house is his, not mine.”
“If I didn’t say yes when papa said must, what would happen?”