“I was hunting for the disappearance of my lost b’loon,” said Pollio, who still used large words in the wrong place sometimes.
“Well, did you find the disappearance?”
“Yes, sir. But ’twas all busted up, sticking on the fence; and I lost it again. Oh, dear! I ought to not gone, and I ought to not staid, and I ought to not—where’s mamma?”
“Asleep, I hope. What do you want of her?”
“Well, I—I want to ask her, ‘Will she forgive me?’”
“Do you? That’s a very good question to ask. And here she comes,” said Nunky, slipping out of the room; for he had waited upon cross Pollio for four hours, and needed rest.
Pollio confessed his naughtiness, and his mother forgave him at once. Did you ever hear of a mother that wouldn’t forgive her darling child?
“O mamma! I sha’n’t ever do anyfing bad any more,” said Pollio, laying his little brown cheek against hers, so glad his sins were over for life. “I felt awful bad, and that was why I wanted that water and that cream beer; but it didn’t do me any good. But now—O mamma!”
“What, dear?”
“If I only had some lemonade!”