intended to touch it only once--just to accentuate
the fact of her motherliness--but it was the sort of soft thick hair
which seemed meant for the gentle passing through it of a woman's
fingers. And the Boy seemed to like it, for he gave one long sigh of
content, and leaned his head against her knee.

"Now I must tell you," said the Aunt, "of the only other time when I
ventured to speak to my Little Boy Blue. He had come to his favourite
place beside the breakwater. The tide had long ago swept away castle,
courtyard, and cannon; but the cannon-ball was still there. It partook
of the nature of 'things that remain.' Heavy stones usually do! When I
peeped over the breakwater, Little Boy Blue was sitting on the sand.
His sturdy legs were spread wide. His bare toes looked like ten little
pink sea-shells. Between his small brown knees, he had planted his
bucket. His right hand wielded a wooden spade, on the handle of which
was writ large, in blue pencil: _Master Guy Chelsea_. He was bent upon
filling his bucket with sand. But the spade being long, and the bucket
too close to him--(Boy, leave my shoe alone! It does not require
attention)--most of the sand missed the bucket, and went over himself.
I heard him sigh rather wearily, and say 'Blow!' in a tired little
voice. I leaned over the breakwater. 'Little Boy Blue,' I said, 'may
I play with you, and help you to fill your bucket with sand?'

"Little Boy Blue looked up. His curls, his eyebrows, his long dark
eyelashes were full of sand. There was sand on his little straight
nose. But no amount of sand could detract from the dignity of his
little face, or weaken its stern decision. He laid down his spade, put
up a damp little hand, and, lifting his blue cap to me, said: 'Fanks;
but I don't like girls.' Oh, Master Guy Chelsea, how you snubbed me!"

The Boy's broad shoulders shook with laughter, but he captured the hand
still smoothing his hair; and, drawing it down to his lips, kissed it
gently, back and palm, and then each finger.

"Poor kind-hearted, well-meaning little girl," he said. "But she must
admit, little girls of seven are not always attractive to small boys of
six."

"I was not seven," said the Aunt, with portentous emphasis. "Leave go
of my hand, Boy, and listen. _When you were six, I was sixteen_."

This bomb of the Aunt's was received with a moment's respectful
silence, as befitted the discharge of her principal field-piece. Then
the Boy