“My mother soaps me all over before I get out. Must I do it?” the child asked, as his merry, haunting eyes smiled up through their long, wet lashes.
“It won't be necessary this time,” Galt said. “The blood is entirely washed off. Get out and let me dry you with this big towel.”
“Ugh! it is cold.” The boy shuddered, as he stood out on the rug and allowed himself to be enveloped from head to foot in the big Turkish towel. He was soon dry, and as he stood, his soft skin flushed as delicately pink as the inside of a sea-shell, Galt, making many an awkward mistake, proceeded to dress him.
“Now let me brush your hair; at least, I know how to do that, young man,” the father said, “but I think it ought to be wet more.”
“Oh no; it is too wet now!” the child declared, as he shook his locks, the ends of which had been under water. “My mother combs it dry.”
“There, how will that do, Miss Particular?” Galt asked as he led the child to a large mirror.
“I don't know; it looks funny, somehow”—Lionel made a grimace at his image in the glass—“but it will have to do. I'd better hurry home. They might miss me, and find out about the fight. I like you for that.”
“For what?” Galt followed him to the door, and as they started across the grass toward the cottage he felt Lionel timidly reaching out for his hand. He had evidently not heard Galt's half-whispered question.
“What was it you said you liked me for?” his father repeated, taking the little hand and holding it tenderly.
“Oh, because you wanted me to whip him. He's rich and has everything, and Granny says his father is a great man. I suppose if you liked Grover the best you would have told him how to fight.”