That Little Beggar Part 12

Taking a book, therefore, I sat down in an easy-chair near the writing-table, where Chris, having fetched his paint-box, settled himself, labouring for a time silently and earnestly at his paintings.

Presently he asked:

"What colour shall I make this horse? Shall I make him black?"

"A very good colour," I replied.

"Then, you see, I could call him 'Black Prince'," he went on. "I couldn't call him 'Black Prince' if I made him brown, could I? I'd have to call him 'Brown Prince'. Have you ever heard of a horse called 'Brown Prince'?"

"Not to my recollection," I said, with my eyes on my book.

"It is a funny name, isn't it?" he said laughing, as he continued his work. "Brown Prince!"

"Very," I said shortly, interested in my story, and not inclined to encourage conversation.

Chris worked on for a few moments without speaking; then asked:

"Miss Beggarley, what colour are moons gennerly?"

I laughed. It was, after all, a futile hope to continue reading under the circ.u.mstances. Still, it was Chris's time with Granny and me, when he exacted as his right an unlimited amount of attention, so I resigned myself.

"What colour?" he repeated, as I did not at once answer.

"Green," I answered.

"Green!" he echoed.

"Haven't you ever heard that the moon is made of green cheese?" I asked.

He stared at me reproachfully.

"You're laughing at me," he said, in an aggrieved voice, "and I don't like you to laugh."

"I won't any more, dear," I said, composing my countenance to a becoming expression of gravity. "If I were you, I should paint the moon pale blue. How would that do?"

"Loverly," answered the little beggar in a mollified voice, and for a moment or two there was again silence.

Then, however, I heard something like a whimper, and looking up I saw Chris's great eyes fixed on me tearfully.

"What is the matter?" I inquired.

"Will my Granny never, never be able to speak again?" he asked, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "Will she always be never able to talk?"

"Why, no, dear," I answered cheerfully. "In a day or two she will be able to talk again as well as ever."

"But she said it," he replied tearfully.

"Said what?" I asked, puzzled. "Oh," I added, enlightened, "you mean when she said she was losing her voice! But she only meant for a little while. She did not intend to say she was losing it for ever. It is only because she has caught a bad cold. When her cold is better she will be able to speak again."

"Are you quite, quite sure?" he asked, anxiously, but relieved at my explanation.

"Quite sure," I answered.

His mind thus at ease, he returned once more to his painting and worked contentedly for another five minutes, at the end of which time his restless spirit rea.s.serted itself.

"Now, what shall we do?" he asked, throwing down his brush and yawning.

"Will you play at horses? You said you would."

"Well, for a little while," I answered, "but not too long."

"Oh, Briggs, what do you want?" Chris asked discontentedly, as at this point that worthy woman made her appearance.

"You are to come and put on your velvet suit against Mr. Wyndham comes,"

she announced staidly.

"I don't want to put on my velvet clothes," he replied rebelliously, annoyed at being thus disturbed. "They're nasty, horrid things."

"Oh, fie! Master Chris," she answered reprovingly.

"It isn't like a big man to wear a velvet suit, it's like a baby," he went on, grumblingly. "Uncle G.o.dfrey doesn't wear velvet clothes, and why should I?"

"Don't you grumble at your velvet suit, Master Chris," Briggs said in a warning tone. "You may come to want it some day. There's many a little boy in the gutter as would be glad and proud to own it."

"Then I wish you would give it to the little boys in the gutters," the little beggar answered wilfully. "I shall ask my Granny to give it to them, 'cause I hate it. And I'm going to play at horses; aren't I, Miss Beggarley?"

"Not with me," I said firmly, "until you have done what Briggs tells you."

"You said you would," he remarked, pouting.

"So I will," I replied, "when you have obeyed Briggs."

He glanced at me inquiringly to see if there was no chance of my relenting, but I preserved a severe and resolute expression--in spite of a distinct inclination to smile,--seeing which he left with laggard step to don the despised suit.

When, later, he returned in that same suit--in the dark-blue knickerbockers and coat, the large Vand.y.k.e collar of cream lace, and the little white satin vest,--I really thought that he looked the sweetest little picture in the world!

He had, indeed, such an extremely clean, well-brushed, and altogether spotless appearance, that I hesitated about the promised game of horses, fearing to spoil the result of Briggs' work, before that all-important event--the arrival of Uncle G.o.dfrey.

"Shall we play something else?" I suggested. "I'm afraid if we play horses you will get untidy."

"Oh no, I won't!" he said confidently. "We'll be quiet horses.

"I know," he added, with a look of intelligence. "I won't be a horse; I'll be the driver, and you shall be a lame horse. Then the game will be such a quiet game."

"Very well," I replied, weakly yielding to his wishes, as most people had a habit of doing. And a minute later I was running round the library in a fas.h.i.+on most undignified for a lady of middle-age, becoming at the same time hotter and more breathless than was altogether comfortable.

Consequently I slackened my pace, and found it more to my mind. For, when a good many years have pa.s.sed since you indulged in the habit of playing horses, you find it more expedient to take for your model the slow and conscientious cab-horse rather than the swift and brilliant racer.

But the change did not please Chris.