“I think, perhaps, we might let him off just this time,” one of the aunts would say, anxiously looking at her sister, and the other would reply gravely, “Yes, just this time, perhaps, but we must not do it again.”
And if there happened to be anything he particularly wanted, much the same proceeding ensued.
“I’m afraid we mustn’t let him have it sister!” Miss Mary would say wistfully. “We mustn’t spoil him, must we?”
“No, sister, we mustn’t spoil him,” would be the reply with like wistfulness.
“Or, do you think, perhaps, just this once, sister?” half timidly.
“Well, perhaps, just this once,” with a show of reluctance, “only it mustn’t happen again, must it?”
“No, certainly not, sister, another time we will be firm for his good.”
And so it went on for twenty-four years, and always “another time” was reserved for firmness on Jack’s account, until “life” took the matter into her own hands, and threw an obstacle across his easy, flower-strewn path, that even his devoted aunts could not smooth away for him, and over which he must needs prove himself a man and fight his own battle. But of that anon.
“My dears, we have had some news!” began Miss Jane, “and we think you will be pleased, so we came across at once to tell you.”
“Yes,” murmured Miss Mary, nodding her small head gravely while her sister spoke, to show that the sentiment was equally hers, “we thought you would be pleased.”