“No; Uncle Basil is.”
The lord in the family was the only redeeming feature of this sordid story; he gave it one fiery touch of the picturesque. Suddenly she forgot her disappointment, and patted Cecil’s scratched and grimy fingers.
“You haven’t been a bit happy, like other little boys, have you?” she said, “and you are so kind and good. I’m sorry, and I wish you could live with memmy and me.”
That Cecil loved sympathy there could be no manner of doubt. He expanded at once upon the painful subject, consigning the devotion of his granny, his seven aunts, his stepmother, the kindness of his uncle, and his unfettered summers, to oblivion. He could not see Lee’s face in the shadow of the rock, but he felt the tensity of her mind, concentrated on himself. They forgot their anxious parents, the dark clinging night, the awful silence, hunger and fatigue. Lee forgot all but Cecil; Cecil forgot all but himself. When he had exhausted his resources, Lee cried:
“I’ll always like you better than any one else in the whole world except memmy! I know I will! I swear I will!”
“Couldn’t you like me better than your mother?” he asked jealously.
Lee hesitated. Her youthful bosom was agitated by conflicting emotions. Feminine subtlety dictated her answer.
“I can’t tell yet. When I’m a big grown-up person I’ll decide.”
“What’s the use of doing anything by halves? I don’t. I like you better than anybody.”
“I’ll have to wait,” firmly.