He considered.
"Books," he said, with a little frown, "that you can tear the pictures out of—pictures of fights, ma'am—and blackamoor's teeth."
"What are they?" asked Mary, gazing earnestly at him; she spoke with a catch in her breath.
He put his hand into his pocket and produced several cowrie shells.
"There, ma'am—they come from far away." His eyes glittered. "It would be good to be a sailor, would it not, ma'am?"
"You are a grave child," said Mary; she drew him softly nearer to her, and bent her beautiful pale face near to his. "You pray for the King, do you not?"
"On Sunday, ma'am."
"Pray for him whenever you say your prayers—and for the Queen."
He nodded.
"The poor Queen!" he said.