“About my big, big, silver penny?” said the child, the water now standing in his eyes; for the more he thought of his loss, which he had carried off in childish pride with a high hand at first, the more Osy felt it. “It is not nonsense, Movver,” he said, “for it is true.”
“About what Cousin Gervase said? It was very wrong of him, but that is not true, Osy. He must have said it for a joke. Don’t say anything. Promise me, dear! Not a word.”
“Not to you, Movver?” said the little boy, two big tears dropping from his eyes; “for I tan’t, tan’t bear to lose my silver penny, and I would not mind if it was a wedding present. I want my silver penny back!”
“We’ll find you another one, dear, that will be just as good.”
“But it won’t be my own one, and I want my own one,” Osy said. He was still sobbing with long-drawn childish reverberation of woe when they got to the door; but there he took a great resolution. “I’ll fink it was a wedding present,” he cried, “and then I sha’n’t mind. I’ll fink he is going to be marrwed, and I’ll never say a word, because nobody knows but me.”
This valorous resolve exercised a great control, and yet was very hard to keep up during the long afternoon which followed. It rained in the later part of the day, and Sir Giles could not go out, so that Osy, restored to all the privileges which had been a little curtailed during Gervase’s temporary reign, became once more a leading member of the party. And how often that important secret came bursting to the little fellow’s lips! But he kept his word, like a gentleman. Margaret heard him singing it to himself as he capered about the room on Sir Giles’ stick, “Doing to be marrwed, doing to be marrwed,” which relieved his mind without betraying his knowledge. It even attracted Sir Giles’ attention, who called to him to know what he was singing.
“It’s a silly rhyme he has just picked up,” said Margaret, interposing, which was a thing the old people did not like.
“He can tell me himself,” said Sir Giles; “he’s quite clever enough.”
“No, it isn’t a silly rhyme,” said little Osy; “it’s me myself, that am a gweat prince riding upon a noble steed, and I’m doing to be marrwed—I’m doing to be marrwed!”
“And who’s the bride, Osy; who’s the bride?” said Sir Giles, in high good humour.