"May I put it on, mother?" asked the little lad.
He did so, then asked for a glass to look at himself.
"Ah?" he said, half crying, half frightened at his wasted pale little face under this load of finery, "I don't like it now. My pretty, pretty lady's hat is much too big for me now. I can't wear it. Oh! mother, wouldn't she be disappointed?"
"She shan't be," said the mother, "for I will draw in the lining, and then it will fit you as well as possible."
"But oh! mother, do be careful. I saw her put in a nice little bit of soft paper; I saw her put it under the lining my own self. You will crush that bit of paper if you aren't careful, mother."
The mother did not much heed the little eager voice, she drew in a cord which ran round the lining, then again placed the hat on Harold's head.
"Now it fits, darling," she said.
"But I think the bit of paper is injured," persisted the boy. "How funny I should never have thought of it until now. I'll take it out, mother, and you can put it by with the other things."
The little fingers poked under the lining and drew out something thin and neatly folded.
"Look, look, mother!" he said excitedly; "there's writing. Read it, mother; read what she said."