“I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys,” said Aunt Janet, reflectively.
“No, ma'am,” said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as was the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it.
“I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John,” said Janet. “I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night, John.”
“Good night. Aunt Janet,” replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good night, which was one reason why he liked her.
On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood open. She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny.
“Are you going to bed?” said she.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he could oblige her.
“Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?” asked she.
“Yes, ma'am.”