“You said you liked me,” the child said, quite seriously, “but you never have kissed me—not once.”
“But men don't kiss little boys,” Galt answered, with a start.
“Oh, yes they do; Doctor Wynn has often kissed me, and hugged me, so!” Lionel put his arms round Galt's neck, pressed his soft, warm cheek against the cold, rough one, and kissed it, once, twice, three times.
“And I've seen Mr. Weston kiss Grover when he runs to meet him at the gate.”
“We've known each other such a short time,” Galt apologized, lamely, as the hot blood coursed through his veins, and the child released him and lay staring at him from his great, reproachful eyes.
“I don't care, you'd kiss me if you loved me as—as much as I do you. Won't you, just one time? Then I'll go.”
“Yes, I'll kiss you—there!” Galt said, as he folded the child in his arms and pressed his lips to the warm, pink brow.
“I had to make you!” Lionel said, as he stood down on the floor. “That is the way I do when my mother is angry. I keep begging her to kiss me till she does; then she laughs and hugs me tighter than ever. Granny says I know how to manage a woman. Good-bye. I thank you for bringing me to your house. Now I am sure you like little boys.”
After the child had gone, Galt walked up and down the veranda, his mind upon problems he had never faced before. He was interrupted by General Sylvester, who hurried across the lawn to speak to him on his way down-town.
“I've only a bare minute,” the old gentleman said. “I suppose you know we are off for New York. You'd better come along and help us have a good time.”