“Yes.”
He nestled himself, the big boy of seven, against her bosom.
“Tell me, Ben, is there nothing you would like? Would you not like something nice of ma?”
“No.” [[303]]
“For instance, a little horse and carriage—a real horse, a pony? Then Herman can teach you to drive.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” he said, in a tone as if she bored him a little.
She grew almost impatient, and was on the point of giving him a scolding, and telling him that he was a wretch of a boy, but that impatience lasted only for a second. She clasped him closer to her and kissed him.
“But if there is anything you would like, you must tell me,” she said, almost weeping. “Will you tell me, Ben? Say, child, will you really tell ma?”
“Yes,” he answered, in a tone of great satisfaction.
And she closed her eyes, shuddering at the thought that her child was an idiot. It was like a curse that had come to her. But why, how had she then deserved it? What had she done?