“But if somebody swimmed out, somebody very, very brave, and clutched me, and brought me back to shore, I wouldn’t be a drownded boy; I’d be a saved boy,” said Ralph.
“That is true.”
“I’d most likely,” continued Ralph, “love that person very much.”
“It would be a brave thing to do, certainly,” said Mr Durrant. “But then it has not happened, Ralph, so don’t let your imagination run away with you.”
“No father,” said Ralph; “I won’t let my ’magination run ’way with me. I don’t quite know what it means, father; but—I won’t let it,—’cause then I shouldn’t be close to you, father; and I love you best, and then Harriet, and then Robina.”
“Robina is a very fine girl,” said his parent. “I like her very much; I am glad she is your friend.”
“So does I like her: she was my school-mother. I like Harriet too, father: I like her awfu’ much. I mustn’t tell you nothing at all, but I like Harriet best of all my school-mothers.”
Mr Durrant thought for a short time over Ralph’s little speech to him. It puzzled the good man not a little. He did not, however, lay it deeply to heart. The boy was under the influence of Harriet, and, truth to tell, Mr Durrant did not take to that young lady. He was, however, sufficiently interested in her to pay her a visit that same evening in her own room.
She was a good deal startled and somewhat nonplussed when he first knocked at the door, then bent his tall head and entered the room.
“Well, Harriet,” he said, “I thought I would find out for myself how you are. I hope you are progressing well, and will soon be able to join the rest of us. It was strange how you and Ralph both caught cold the same day: it was very unlucky. How are you to-night, my dear girl?”