brother. In spite of which the little girl, for all her delicious
impertinences, looked up to the boy; and the boy had adored her, from
the time she gurgled at him from her cradle.

My mother left us, and John Flint and I sat outdoors in the pleasant
twilight, he smoking the pipe Laurence had given him.

"Parson," said he, abruptly, "Parson, you folks are swells, ain't you?
The real thing, I mean, you and Madame? Even the yellow nigger's a
lady nigger, ain't she?"

"I am a poor priest, such as you see, my son, Madame is--Madame. And
Clélie is a good servant."

"But you were born a swell, weren't you?" he persisted. "Old family,
swell diggings, trained flunkies, and all that?"

"I was born a gentleman, if that is what you mean. Of an old family,
yes. And there was an old house--once."

"How'd _you_ ever hit the trail for the Church? I wonder! But say,
you never asked me any more questions than you had to, so you can tell
me to shut up, if you want to. Not that I wouldn't like to know how
the Sam Hill the like of you ever got nabbed by the skypilots."

"God called me through affliction, my son."

"Oh," said my son, blankly. "Huh! But I bet you the best crib ever
cracked you were some peach of a boy before you got that 'S.O.S.'"