I did not understand him--in fact, I did not understand many things
that he said, for he had a habit of talking to me as if he were
speaking to himself; but I had a general idea of his meaning, and said
(very truly), "I cannot fancy you doing wrong."

I was puzzled again by the curious expression of his face; but he only
said, "Shall I tell you a story?"

I knew his stories of old, and gave an eager "Yes."

"It is a sad one," he said.

"I do not think I should like a very funny one just now," I replied.
"Is it true?"

"Quite," he answered. "It is about myself." He was silent for a few
moments, as if making up his mind to speak; and then, laying his head,
as he sometimes did, on my shoulder, so that I could not see his face,
he began.

"When I was a boy (older than you, so I ought to have been better), I
might have been described in the words of Scripture--I was 'the only
son of my mother, and she was a widow.' We were badly off, and she was
very delicate, nay, ill--more ill, GOD knows, than I had any
idea of. I had long been used to the sight of the doctor once or twice
a week, and to her being sometimes better and sometimes worse; and
when our old servant lectured me for making a noise, or the doctor
begged that she might not be excited or worried, I fancied that
doctors and nurses always did say things of that sort, and that there
was no particular need to attend to them.