“To the village, mamma?”
“No, my boy”—her voice quivered—“not to the village. You must put on your Sunday clothes; the velvet coat, of course, is spoiled, but I have taken the stains out of your gray jacket—it will still do; and you must polish your boots quickly.”
“Where are we going, then, mamma?”
Then she laid her arms round him, and said, softly,
“To the White House.”
He felt a sudden fever of excitement. The exultant joy which welled up from his heart nearly choked him; he jumped on his mother’s lap and kissed her impetuously.
“But you must tell nobody,” she whispered—“nobody; do you understand?”
He nodded, full of importance. He was such a clever fellow. He knew what it was all about.
“And now dress yourself quickly.”
Paul flew up-stairs to the room where his clothes were kept, and suddenly—he never clearly knew on which step it was—a long-drawn shrill sound escaped his mouth; there was no doubt any more—he could whistle! he tried for the second, the third time—it went splendidly.