All this, of course, in the simple language of boyhood.
Then Lady Bassett smiled, and said, "Suppose I were to lend you a key
of that iron gate?"
"Oh, mamma!"
"I have a great mind to."
"Then you will, you will."
"Does that follow?"
"Yes: whenever you say you think you'll do something kind, or you have
a great mind to do it, you know you always do it; and that is one thing
I do like you for, mamma--you are better than your word."
"Better than my word? Where does the child learn these things?"
"La, mamma, papa says that often."
"Oh, that accounts for it. I like the phrase very much. I wish I could
think I deserved it. At any rate, I will be as good as my word for
once; you shall have a key of the gate."
The boy clapped his hands with delight. The key was sent for, and,
meantime, she told him one reason why she had trusted him with it was
because he had been as good as his word about the stable.
The key was brought, and she held it up half playfully, and said,
"There, sir, I deliver you this upon conditions: you must only use it
when the weather is quite dry, because the grass in the meadow is
longer, and will be wet. Do you promise?"
"Yes, mamma."
"And you must always lock the gate when you come back, and bring the
key to one place--let me see--the drawer in the hall table, the one
with marble on it; for you know a place for every thing is our rule.
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