“Ah, my darling! would that my lazy men were endued with some of your spirit,” said Stanley, patting the child’s head.
“Is Prince a lazy man, papa?” inquired Edith anxiously.
“No, certainly, Prince is not. Why do you ask?”
“Because I love Prince.”
“And do you not love all the men?”
“No,” replied Edith, with some hesitation; “at least I don’t love them very much, and I hate one.”
“Hate one!” echoed Mrs Stanley. “Come here, my darling.”
Eda slipped from her father’s knee and went to her mother, feeling and looking as if she had said something wrong.
Mrs Stanley was not one of those mothers who, whenever they hear of their children having done anything wrong, assume a look of intense, solemnised horror, that would lead an ignorant spectator to suppose that intelligence had just been received of some sudden and appalling catastrophe. She knew that children could not be deceived by such pieces of acting. She expressed on her countenance precisely what she felt—a slight degree of sorrow that her child should cherish an evil passion, which, she knew, existed in her heart in common with all the human race, but which she expected, by God’s help and blessing, to subdue effectually at last. Kissing Eda’s forehead she said kindly,—“Which of them do you hate, darling?”
“Gaspard,” replied the child.