"Who is that?" he asked his mother one day, pointing to a wood-cut that purported to portray a human being, as he lay sprawling on the floor, his favorite book opened out before him.
"That is a king," replied his mother, looking down from her sewing. The mother and the boy were alone in the kitchen.
"King David?"
"No; a king of France."
"King George?"
"No; King George is king of England, where your father came from, and your grandfather, and of America, where we are. France is another country."
"Where does this king live?" pointing to the wood-cut.
"He is dead now. He died long ago. He lived in a city called Paris, in the country called France."
"Is that a house?" The boy had turned to a supposed picture of the Louvre.
"Yes, a great, big house, a palace they call it, because it belongs to the king."