bed in the
garret and comforted him.

Rebecca, her friend, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were in the
drawing-room taking tea after the opera, when this shouting was heard
overhead. "It's my cherub crying for his nurse," said his mother, who did
not offer to move and go and see the child. "Don't agitate your feelings
by going to look after him," said Lord Steyne sardonically. "Bah!"
exclaimed Becky, with a sort of blush. "He'll cry himself to sleep"; and
they fell to talking about the opera.

Mr. Rawdon Crawley had stolen off, however, to look after his son and
heir; and came back to the company when he found that honest Dolly was
consoling the child. The Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper
regions. He used to see the boy there in private. They had interviews
together every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sitting on a box by
his father's side, and watching the operation with never-ceasing
pleasure. He and the sire were great friends. The father would bring him
sweet-meats from the dessert, and hide them in a certain old epaulet box
where the child went to seek them, and laughed with joy on discovering
the treasure; laughed, but not too loud; for mamma was asleep and must
not be disturbed. She did not go to rest until very late, and seldom rose
until afternoon.

His father bought the boy plenty of picture books, and crammed his
nursery with toys. Its walls were covered with pictures pasted up by the
father's own hand. He passed hours with the boy, who rode on his chest,
pulled his great moustaches as if they were driving reins, and spent days
with him in indefatigable gambols. The room was a low one, and once, when
the child was not five years old, his father, who was tossing him wildly
up in his arms, hit the poor little chap's scull so violently against the
ceiling that he almost dropped him, so terrified was he at the disaster.

Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl, but just as he
was going to begin, the father interposed.

"For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake mamma," he cried. And the child,
looking in a very hard and piteous way at his father, bit his lips,
clenched his hands, and didn't cry a bit. Rawdon told that story at the
clubs, at the mess, to everybody in town. "By Gad, sir," he explained to
the public in general, "what a good plucky one that boy of mine is. What
a trump he is! I half sent his head through the ceiling, and he wouldn't
cry for fear of disturbing mother!