“And what do you like best, Allan?”

“Oh, I like this fine and splendid book best of all!”—­and he read from the title-page, in the clear, confident tones of the pupil who knows that the teacher’s favour rests upon him—­“’From Eden to Calvary; or through the Bible in a year with our boys and girls; a book of pleasure and profit for young persons on Sabbath Afternoon.  By Grandpa Silas Atterbury, the well-known author and writer for young people.”

His glance toward his brother at the close was meant to betray the consciousness of his own superiority to one who dallied sensuously with created objects.

But the unspiritual one was riding the new horse at a furious gallop, and the glance of reproof was unnoted save by the old man—­who wondered if it might be by any absurd twist that the boy most like the godless father were more godly than the one so like his mother that every note of his little voice and every full glance of his big blue eyes made the old heart flutter.

In the afternoon came callers from the next house; Dr. Crealock, rubicund and portly, leaning on his cane, to pass the word of seasonable cheer with his old friend and pastor; and with him his tiny niece to greet the grandchildren of his friend.  The Doctor went with his host to the study on the second floor, where, as a Christmas custom, they would drink some Madeira, ancient of days, from a cask prescribed and furnished long since by the doctor.

The little boy was for the moment left alone with the tiny niece; to stare curiously, now that she was close, at one of whom he had caught glimpses in a window of the big house next door.  She was clad in a black velvet cloak and hood, with pink satin next her face inside the hood, and she carried a large closely-wrapped doll which she affected to think might have taken cold.  With great self-possession she doffed her cloak and overshoes; then slowly and tenderly unwound the wrappings of the doll, talking meanwhile in low mothering tones, and going with it to the fire when she had it uncloaked.  Of the boy who stared at her she seemed unconscious, and he could do no more than stand timidly at a little distance.  An eye-flash from the maid may have perceived his abjectness, for she said haughtily at length, “I’m astonished no one in this house knows where Clytie is!”

He drew nearer by as far as he could slowly spread his feet twice.

“I know—­now—­she went to get two glasses from the dresser to take to my grandfather and that gentleman.”  He felt voluble from the mere ease of the answer.  But she affected to have heard nothing, and he was obliged to speak again.

“Now—­why, I know a doll that shuts up her eyes every time she lies down.”