“What?”
“Did you say pwessin’ on bwains made us dweam fings, Aunt Alish?”
“Ye—es,” Mrs. Burton replied. “That is the——”
“Well, then,” interrupted Toddie. “Jzust you sit down on my head an’ make dat candy-shop come back again, won’t you?”
“Say, Aunt Alice,” said Budge, “do you know that lots of times I don’t know any more than I knew before.”
“I don’t understand you, Budge.”
“Why, when folks tell me things—I mean, I ask them how things are, an’ they tell me, an’ then I don’t know any better than I did before. Is that the way it is with grown folks?”
“DREAMIN’ I WAS IN A CANDY-STORE”
Mrs. Burton reflected for a moment and recalled many experiences very much like that of Budge—experiences, too, in which she had forced the same impassive face that Budge wore, as she pretended to comprehend that which had been imperfectly explained. She remembered, too, how depressing had been the lack of understanding, and how strong was the sense of injury at being required to act as if her comprehension had been perfectly reached. Whether the topics had been the simple affairs of childhood, or the social, æsthetic and religious instructions of adult age, Mrs. Burton, like every one else, had been told more than she understood, and misunderstood many things she had been told, and blamed her friends and the world for her blunders and for lack of appreciation of the intentions to which proper and fostering training had never been applied. Was it possible that she was repeating with her nephews the blunders which others had committed while attempting to shape her own mind?