“Arthur,” said his father, “you are forgetting your good manners, I am afraid;” but he seemed rather amused himself.
“Do you often say those funny things, Arthur?” asked his aunt.
“I believe he is rather given to speaking his mind freely,” said Mr. Vivyan.
“Did I say anything rude?” asked Arthur, looking up earnestly into his aunt’s face.
“No, dear, nothing at all; only, you know, I am not accustomed to little boys; and so perhaps that is why the things they say sound odd to me.”
“Well, aunt,” said Arthur, “mind, if I seem to say rude things I don’t mean them; I don’t really; and I should be very sorry to say rude things to you, because I think I like you.”
“You don’t say so,” said Mr. Vivyan, laughing.
But Mrs. Estcourt did not laugh; she stooped down and kissed Arthur; and then she held his hand in hers for a little while, so that it almost felt to him as if it was some one else’s hand, and, though it was very pleasant to have such a kind aunt, that he felt he would love, it brought a strange, choking feeling into his throat, and his eyes felt as if they would like to cry; so he suddenly jumped up, and said—
“I think I should like to go to bed.”
Mrs. Estcourt took him up herself into the room that was to be his own. It was a pretty, pleasant room, and a bright fire was burning in the grate. There seemed to have been a great deal of thought, spent on the comfort of the person who was to sleep there; and Arthur almost smiled, if he could have smiled at anything then, as his aunt hoped he would not want anything, and said she would send him a night-light presently.