think perhaps it does; so if you
like you can say Aunt Margaret."

"Oh, I don't like that at all!" said Arthur in a very decided tone. "No,
please; I would rather say the other; and I think perhaps you are like a
daisy when you can't see the red."

"Well, you are a funny little boy," Mrs. Estcourt said; and she laughed
quite merrily.

"Arthur," said his father, "you are forgetting your good manners, I am
afraid;" but he seemed rather amused himself.

"Do you often say those funny things, Arthur?" asked his aunt.

"I believe he is rather given to speaking his mind freely," said Mr.
Vivyan.

"Did I say anything rude?" asked Arthur, looking up earnestly into his
aunt's face.

"No, dear, nothing at all; only, you know, I am not accustomed to little
boys; and so perhaps that is why the things they say sound odd to me."

"Well, aunt," said Arthur, "mind, if I seem to say rude things I don't
mean them; I don't really; and I should be very sorry to say rude things
to you, because I think I like you."

"You don't say so," said Mr. Vivyan, laughing.

But Mrs. Estcourt did not laugh; she stooped down and kissed Arthur; and
then she held his hand in hers for a little while, so that it almost felt
to him as if it was some one else's hand, and, though it was very pleasant
to have such a kind aunt, that he felt he would love, it brought a
strange, choking feeling into his throat, and his eyes felt as if they
would like to cry; so he suddenly jumped up, and said--

"I think I should like to go to bed."

Mrs. Estcourt took him up herself into the room that was to be his own. It
was a pretty, pleasant room, and a bright fire was burning in the grate.
There seemed to have been a great deal of thought, spent on the comfort of
the person who was to sleep there; and Arthur almost smiled, if he could
have smiled at anything then, as his aunt hoped he would not want
anything, and said she would send him a night-light presently.

"No, thank you," he said; "I always sleep in the dark."

"You are a brave boy, I suppose," said Mrs. Estcourt.

"I don't know," Arthur said; "but mother always says it is wrong to be
afraid."

"Wrong?" asked his aunt.

"Yes; because don't you know, aunt, we ought to trust in God, mother
says."

"Then are you never afraid, dear Arthur?" his aunt was just going to say;
but as she looked at him she saw that his lips were trembling, and that
the tears were filling his eyes; for the mention of his mo