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Now the other day I peeped into a bedroom of that little boy’s home.  The sun was up, and so was Jack, but one of his numerous Aunts was not.  She was in bed with a headache, and to this her pale face, her eyes shunning the light like my own, and her hair restlessly tossed over the pillow bore witness.  When a knock came on the bedroom door, she started with pain, but lay down again and cried—­“Come in!”

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The door opened, but no one came in; and outside the voices of the little boy and his nurse were audible.

“I want to show her my new coat.”

“You can’t, Master Jack.  Your Aunt’s got a dreadful headache, and can’t be disturbed.”

No peevish complaints from Jack:  only a deep sigh.

“I’m very sorry about her headache; and I’m very very sorry about my coat.  For I am going out, and it will never be so new again.”

His Aunt spoke feebly.

“Nurse, I must see his coat.  Let him come in.”

Enter Jack.

It was his first manly suit, and he was trying hard for a manly soul beneath it, as a brave boy should.  He came in very gently, but with conscious pride glowing in his rosy cheeks and out of his shining eyes.  His cheeks were very red, for a step in life is a warming thing, and so is a cloth suit when you’ve been used to frocks.

It was a bottle-green coat, with large mother-o’-pearl buttons and three coachman’s capes; and there were leggings to match.  The beaver hat, too, was new, and becomingly cocked, as he stood by his Aunt’s bedside and smiled.

“What a fine coat, Jack!”

“Made by a tailor, Auntie Julie.  Real pockets!”

“You don’t say so!”

He nodded.

“Leggings too!” and he stuck up one leg at a sudden right angle on to the bed; a rash proceeding, but the boy has a straight little figure, and with a hop or two he kept his balance.

“My dear Jack, they are grand.  How warm they must keep your legs!”

He shook his beaver hat.

“No.  They only tickles.  That’s what they do.”

There was a pause.  His Aunt remembered the old peevish ways.  She did not want to encourage him to discard his winter leggings, and was doubtful what to say.  But in a moment more his eyes shone, and his face took that effulgent expression which some children have when they are resolved upon being good.

“—­and as I can’t shake off the tickle, I have to bear it,” added the little gentleman.

I call him the little gentleman advisedly.  There is no stronger sign of high breeding in young people, than a cheerful endurance of the rubs of life.  A temper that fits one’s fate, a spirit that rises with the occasion.  It is this kind of courage which the Gentlemen of England have shown from time immemorial, through peace and war, by land and sea, in every country and climate of the habitable globe.  Jack is a child of that Empire on which the sun never sets, and if he live he is like to have larger opportunities of bearing discomfort than was afforded by the woolly worry of his bottle-green leggings.  I am in good hopes that he will not be found wanting.