"Dear Beppo, I love him," said Willie, skipping about the room; "I hope I shall always be an honest dog--an honest boy I mean," he continued, laughing. "How splendid to have every body trust you, and leave all kinds of treasure for you to take care of! Mamma, would you like me to take care of grandma's portrait? I know that is a great treasure: I would put it under my bed and stare at it all day."
"But what would you do at night?" said his mother, laughing.
"Oh!" said Willie, "to be sure! why, we must have a dog like Beppo, you know. I am the griffin, see how fierce I look!" and Willie looked so fierce, that his mother pretended to be terribly frightened, and ran away, Willie tearing after her, his blue eyes dancing with fun, and they were both having a fine scamper, when Willie's father stood laughing at the door.
And now tea was ready; Willie's tea was bread and milk. He never had rich cake, or sweetmeats, or strong tea, or hot bread, which are all very fine while you are eating them, but which create quite a riot in the stomach of a delicate child, and often lay the foundation of life-long indigestion. He had a mother who was really kind, and did her utmost to save him from bodily pain, and took unwearied pains in storing his mind with noble thoughts, a love of truth, and a contempt for every thing mean. Her almost hourly prayer was, that her only son and child might grow up to be a Christian--"to love God with all his heart, and his neighbor as himself"--and, so far, the dear little fellow had richly rewarded her care.
The next day Willie studied his lessons, and knew them perfectly, and played on the lawn before the house. Although more than once his eyes sparkled with impatience to hear the rest of the delightful story, he did not annoy his mother, as some children do, with such expressions as these: "Come, now--right away. I want to hear the rest of that story. Oh! dear me! how long you are! I--wish--you--would--COME." Oh, no; Willie knew that his dear mother had many things to do, and he did not say one word about Beppo till about the same time the next afternoon, as his mother took her seat by the large and pleasant window which looked out upon the lawn; then he went up to her, and put his arms round her neck, and kissed her as before, and said: "Mamma, Mr. Fowler, the Phrenologist, says you can tell all about a boy, by the bumps on his head. I think I must have a prodigious bump of liking to have stories read or told to me. I have thought all day about Beppo and the hateful old griffin; but I have not said any thing or teased you--have I, mamma? I have been as quiet as a drum with a hole in it--haven't I, mamma?"