"I say—Aunt Eliza—I'm sorry I said that—you know what."
And he looks up with a little of the old yearning,—the yearning he used to feel when another sat in that place.
"Ah, that is right, Master Reuben! I hope we shall be friends, now."
Another disturbed look at her,—remembering the time when he would have leaped into a mother's arms, after such struggle with his self-will, and found gladness. That is gone; no swift embrace, no tender hand toying with his hair, beguiling him from play. And he sidles out again, half shamefaced at a surrender that has wrought so little. Loitering, and playing with the balusters as he descends, the swift, keen voice comes after him,—
"Don't soil the paint, Reuben!"
"I haven't."
And the swift command and as swift retort put him in his old, wicked mood again, and he breaks out into a defiant whistle. (Over and over the spinster has told him it was improper to whistle in-doors.) Yet, with a lingering desire for sympathy, Reuben makes his way into his father's study; and the minister lays down his great folio,—it is Poole's "Annotations,"—and says,—
"Well, Reuben!"
"I told her I was sorry," says the boy; "but I don't believe she likes me much."
"Why, my son?"