een
willing to give a finger off either of his hands to possess; and its
price was just three dollars. Now, why didn't the little wretch take the
money and buy the beautiful book with which his whole soul was enamored?
The poor child did not know himself. But you and I know, reader, don't
we? We know that he could not take the money, with the arm of that
black-eyed little lady around his neck!

Yes, the arm of Claudia was still most tenderly and protectingly
encircling his neck, and every few minutes she would draw down his rough
head caressingly to her own damask cheek.

Shocking, wasn't it? And you wonder how her aunt and uncle could have
stood by and permitted it. Because they couldn't help it. Miss Claudia
was a little lady, angel born, who had never been contradicted in her
life. Her father was a crochety old fellow, with a "theory," one result
of which was that he let his trees and his daughter grow up unpruned as
they liked.

But do not mistake Miss Claudia, or think her any better or any worse
than she really was. Her caresses of the peasant boy looked as if she
was republican in her principles and "fast" in her manners. She was
neither the one nor the other. So far from being republican, she was
just the most ingrained little aristocrat that ever lived! She was an
aristocrat from the crown of her little, black, ringletted head to the
sole of her tiny, gaitered foot; from her heart's core to her
scarf-skin; so perfect an aristocrat that she was quite unconscious of
being so. For instance, she looked upon herself as very little lower
than the angels; and upon the working classes as very little higher than
the brutes; if in her heart she acknowledged that all in the human shape
were human, that was about the utmost extent of her liberalism. She and
they were both clay, to be sure, but she was of the finest porcelain
clay and they of the coarsest potter's earth. This theory had not been
taught her, it was born in her, and so entirely natural and sincere that
she was almost unconscious of its existence; certainly unsuspicious of
its fallacy.

Thus, you see, she caressed Ishmael just exactly as she would have
caressed her own Newfoundland dog; she defended his truth and honesty
from false accusation just as she would have defended Fido's from a
similar charge; she praised his fidelity and courage just as she would
have praised Fido's; for, in very truth, she rated the peasant boy not
one whit higher than the dog