He took her on his knee. She looked up into his face.
“What's the matter, Uncle Cy?” she asked. “What makes you so sober?”
“Sober? If you ain't the oldest young one for eight years I ever saw! Why, I ain't sober. No, no! Say, Bos'n, do you like your school as well as ever?”
“Yes, sir. I like it better all the time.”
“Do, hey? And that teacher woman—go on likin' her?”
The child nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir,” she said. “And I haven't been kept after since that once.”
“Sho! sho! Course you ain't'! So you think Bayport's as nice as Concord, do you?”
“Oh! lots nicer! If mamma was only here I'd never want to be anywhere else. And not then, maybe, unless you was there, too.”
“Hum! Want to know! Say, Bos'n, how would you feel if you had to go somewheres else?”
“To live? Have we got to? I'd feel dreadful, of course. But if you've got to go, Uncle Cyrus, why—”