e foot wearisomely ranging itself beside the
other, and two hands helping both: that is Jamie coming up stairs.
Patter, patter, patter: that is Jamie trotting through the entry. He
never walks. Rattle, clatter, shake: Jamie is opening the door. Now he
marches in. Flushed with exertion, and exultant over his brilliant
escapade from the odious surveillance below, he presents himself peering
on tiptoe just over the arm of the big chair, and announces his
errand,--

"Come t' see Baddy."

"Baddy doesn't want you."

"Baddy _do_."

Then, in no wise daunted by his cool welcome, he works his way up into
the big chair with much and indiscriminate pulling: if it is a sleeve,
if it is a curtain, if it is a table-cloth whereon repose many pens,
much ink and paper, and knick-knacks without number, nothing heeds he,
but clutches desperately at anything which will help him mount, and so
he comes grunting in, all tumbled and twisted, crowds down beside me,
and screws himself round to face the table, poking his knees and feet
into me with serene unconcern. Then, with a pleased smile lighting up
his whole face, he devotes himself to literature. A small, brass-lined
cavity in the frame of the writing-desk serves him for an inkstand. Into
that he dips an old, worn-out pen with consequential air, and
assiduously traces nothing on bits of paper. Of course I am reduced to a
masterly inactivity, with him wriggling against my right arm, let alone
the danger hanging over all my goods and chattels from this lawless
little Vandal prowling among them. Shall I send him away? Yes, if I am
an insensate clod, clean given over to stupidity and selfishness; if I
count substance nothing, and shadow all things; if I am content to dwell
with frivolities forever, and have for eternal mysteries nothing but
neglect. For suppose I break in upon his short-lived delight, thrust him
out grieved and disappointed, with his brave brow clouded, a mist in his
blue eyes, and--that heart-rending sight--his dear little under-lip and
chin all quivering and puckering. Well, I go back and write an epic
poem. The printers mangle it; the critics fall foul of it; it is lost in
going through the post-office; it brings me ten letters, asking an
autograph, on six of which I have to pay postage. There is vanity and
vexation of spirit, besides eighteen cents out of pocket, and the
children crying for bread. I let him stay. A little, innocent life,
fearfully dependent on others f