“Sure!” said Mr. Brown. “There won’t be nothin’ that little gal ought to see, but what she’ll see it to-day. Ma’ll look out for that,” and he gathered up David’s little hand in his big one.
David trotted along in great contentment, trying to keep step with the farmer’s big strides as they left the sweet-smelling old barn, fragrant with its generous hay-lofts.
“You see Mis Brown has got th’ little gal, an’ I’ve got you,” said the farmer, in great satisfaction. “You’re my boy.”
Everything swam around before David’s eyes. He stopped in silent terror, dragging on the big hand, and his cheeks grew quite white.
“Whew!” exclaimed Mr. Brown, aghast at the storm he had raised, “wouldn’t you like to be my boy, pray tell?”
“Oh no, no,” cried Davie, finding his tongue, “I’m Mamsie’s boy—I must go to Mamsie.” But all his pulling wouldn’t get his hand free.
“You see this place,” Mr. Brown went on as fast as he could talk, and he swept his other big hand around, “there’s everythin’ here,—and I’d get you a pony, all for yourself, just think, David, an’ a calf, you may have the pick of all the bossies, an’ a pig—two of ’em, if you want ’em.”
“No, no!” cried Davie, quite gone in his fright that he was never going to see the little brown house again. “Do let me go—oh, do let me go, please!”
The farmer gave a long sigh. He still clutched the small hand.
“Davie,” he said, and his voice broke, “I hain’t never had a little boy, not a single one,” he added mournfully.