"Poor little beggar!" said John Mortimer to his father, as they all
walked to the inn together; "those two women will mope that boy into his
grave if they don't look out."

"No, John," exclaimed his uncle, "I hope you really don't think so."

John, in spite of his youth, had some experience. He had already filled
his house with little Mortimers. There were seven of them--some of the
largest pattern, and with the finest appetites possible. So his opinion
carried weight, and was at the same time worth nothing, for as his
children had never but once had anything the matter with them, his
general view of childhood was that if it had plenty to eat, a large
garden to play in, and leave to go out in all weathers, it was sure to
prosper, as in fact the little Mortimers did. They brought themselves up
(with a certain amount of interference from their governess) in a high
state of health and good-humour, and with no quarrelling to speak of,
while the amount of sleep they got out of their little beds, the rapid
skill with which they wore down their shoes, and the quantity of rice
milk and roast meat they could consume, were a wonder to the matrons
round.

"I see nothing special the matter with him," continued John Mortimer;
"but one cannot help pitying a child that has no companions and no
liberty. I thought I should like to plunge him for a little while into
the sweet waters of real child-life, and let him learn to shout and
stamp and dig and climb, as my little urchins do."

"But his mother is a poor, faded, fat creature," observed Valentine.
"You'll see she won't let that boy go. You can no more get her to do a