“Is that really true?” asked Phil, his eyes shining. “I like the words very much. They sound like a kind of speech that the beautiful green lady of the forest would have made; but, Aunt Griselda, I must say it—I am sorry.”
“What about, dear?”
“That you are satisfied with me as an heir.”
“My dear little Phil, what a queer speech to make. Why should not I be satisfied with a nice, good little boy like you?”
“Oh, yes, you might like me for myself,” said Phil; “but as the heir—that is quite a different thing. I’d never picture myself as an heir—never!”
“What do you mean, Phil?”
“I know what I mean, Aunt Griselda, but it’s a secret, and I mustn’t say. I have a lovely picture in my mind of what the heir ought to be. Perhaps there is no harm in telling you what my picture is like. Oh, if you only could see him!”
“See whom, Philip?”
“My picture. He is tall and strong and very broad, and he has a look of Rachel, and his cheeks are brown, and his hair is black, and his arms are full of muscle, and his shoulders are perfectly square, and he holds himself up so erect, just as if he was drilled. He is strong beyond anybody else I know, and yet he is kind; he wouldn’t hurt even a fly. Oh, if you only knew him. He’s my picture of an heir!”
Phil’s face flushed and his lovely eyes shone. Aunt Griselda stooped down and kissed him.