YOUNG GRIZZLY BOWED LOW
“‘He rode my filly home to-day,’ the Young Mistress said.
“‘Did he? Did he? I’ll kiss you, sis, for that!’ So spoke the Little Master, and he was as good as his word. He hopped nearly across the floor on his crutches and smacked the Young Mistress right in the mouth.
“I was wondering whether the Son of Ben Ali was sleeping all this time, so I went and sat by the closet. I could hear the Son of Ben Ali breathing very hard, and I said to myself, if he is not asleep, he is sitting in there crying.”
Sweetest Susan looked at Aaron, and her beautiful eyes were full of tears. Aaron shook his head and smiled, and then pretended to be gazing at something in the fireplace.
“He may have been laughing,” continued Rambler, licking his foreleg, where a briar had scratched it, “but as there was nothing to laugh at, that I could see, I thought maybe he was crying. But maybe he wasn’t. I’m never certain of anything until I get my nose on it, and there was a wall between the Son of Ben Ali and me.
“The Young Mistress and the Little Master were very angry, but before they could say much a very curious thing happened. The door of the closet flew open, and the Son of Ben Ali tumbled out in a heap on the floor. The Young Mistress fell back a step or two and gave a little scream, but the Little Master stood his ground and lifted his crutch in a threatening manner. But the Son of Ben Ali simply fell out of the closet in a heap. He was still stiff and sore, and by the time he had gathered himself together the Young Mistress knew who he was, and in a moment, too, the Little Master knew him.
“‘Why, it’s Aaron!’ he cried, though nobody ever told me why any one ever called the Son of Ben Ali Aaron.
“Then he seized the Son of Ben Ali’s hand, and stood leaning against him for support, as he did many and many a day and night after, as I have seen. The Little Master’s head came no higher than the Son of Ben Ali’s shoulder, though the child was standing on his feet, and the Son of Ben Ali on his knees.