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“Oh, Billy, how could you, when mother has so much to do?” It was his sister, Edith, who spoke, her sweet face clouded with rare disapproval. Yet she went on with the music lesson she was giving. Moses’ intuition regarding St. Elmo’s retreat proved to be correct, and it was a sadly dejected countenance on which he gazed when he looked into the cave. Tears, dirt, and the juice of Saskatoon berries mingled on the fair sleeping face of the child, until he seemed to be the very Cree Indian he had so often personated in his play. His long curls were tangled and matted with small twigs. His diminutive brown velvet coat displayed a large rent in the elbow through which oozed a pathetic-looking suppuration of pink and white checked shirt. Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?”.
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Conrad
Nell’s answer was somehow strangely muffled. “And I’m always going to be your little girl, too,” the child pleaded; “so Billy must be my papa’s little boy.” CHAPTER XVIII.—A PAIR OF CHECKED TROUSERS. ‘The antlered monarch of the waste.
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