“I sometimes think that George is jealous of you and me, and he ought not to be, for father does as much for him as for any one else, and I am papa’s own child.”
“Of course you are, Annie, while I am only a little boy Mr. Benson was so good to. Never mind, when I get big I’m going to marry you.”
“Oh, you can’t, Tom,” replied Annie, “for I am four years older than you are. You would not want to have your wife boss you, would you, Tom, and I would have to if I was older than you.”
“Oh, not always. I read in a book once,” proceeded Tom earnestly, “about a man and a woman, and she was ten years older than her husband, and they were very happy.”
“Were they, really? I never heard of such a thing. I thought the husbands had to be at least twenty years older than the wife.”
“Pshaw, no, and I’m going to have you for my wife.”
Again there was silence. The girl was about twelve, while the boy, although large for his age, was but eight.
“George said he was going to marry me,” said Annie after a while. “He said that my father was very rich and that he being my cousin ought to have the right to look after my money.”
“George ain’t good enough for you, Annie,” hesitated Tom. “If you won’t tell I’ll tell you something.”
“I promise, and cross my heart,” replied Annie.