He was never alone. Oh, how he longed to be alone sometimes! And he never had any playfellows: how he would watch those two or three vulgar little boys building sand-castles and sailing their boats! He would have given all his big schooner and its crew to be one of those little boys.
He had a cruise now and then off the island, and the skipper came up bare-headed and hoped my lord enjoyed the sail; but he did not enjoy it: William and Deborah were always after him, telling him to mind this, and take care of that, till he wished his pretty snow-white sailor dress with the gold buttons were only rags and tatters! For the poor little Earl was an adventurous and curious little lad at heart, and had a spirit of his own, though he was so meek; and he was tired of being treated like a baby.
His eighth birthday came round in June, and wonderful and magnificent were the presents he had sent him; but he only felt a little more tired than he had done before; the bonbons he was not allowed to eat, the splendidly-bound books seemed nonsense to a little classic who read Livy; the toys he did not care for, and the gold dressing-case his grandmamma gave him was no pleasure: he had one in silver, and his very hair he was never permitted to brush himself.
“As I may not eat the bonbons, might I send them all to the children on the sands?” he asked wistfully of his grandmother.
“Impossible, my love,” she answered. “We do not know who they are.”
“May I give them to the poor children then?” said the little lad.
“That would hardly be wise, dear. It would give them a taste for luxuries.”
Bertie sighed: life on this his eighth birthday seemed very empty.
“Why are people strangers to each other? Why does not everybody speak to every one else?” he said at last, desperately. “St. Paul says we are all brothers, and St. Francis——”