I began to feel embarrassed, and asked him how old he was. He
smiled. "Do you like dancing, Thomas?" I said.

He looked away, and every time I addressed him he seemed to
retreat farther into his chair, until I had fears that he would
disappear altogether from my sight. His waist-line seemed to be
the vanishing-point. I made no further effort, and relapsed into
silence. Thomas continued to gaze at me and smile. At last he
extended a fat little hand, uncurled one by one four soft little
fingers, and revealed, lying in his palm, a short screw. It was
evidently his greatest treasure, for the moment.

"Is that for me, Thomas?" I asked. "Nope," he said, shaking his
head.

"Is it your very own?"

"Yeth," said Thomas, drawing in his breath. He shut his little
hand, put out his tongue just the smallest bit, and became serious
and silent.

"Is it a present?" I asked. Having got so far, it seemed a pity
not to go on. He had done me the greatest honor that a small boy
can do a woman, which, by the way, was what our Nannie said when
she told us that a strange man had proposed to her on a penny
steamboat.

Thomas shook his head and said, "Nope."

"Did you find it?" I asked.