"It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "_A Golden Word
from Mother_. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's
perfectly lovely--in moroccy."
"One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I
think he can read."
This, according to our fraternal code, was rank treachery, yet I felt
no traitor. Ajax obeyed my summons, and, sauntering across the sun-
baked yard, lifted his hat to the visitor. She bowed politely, and
blinked, with short-sighted eyes, at my brother's overalls and
tattered canvas shirt. I have seen Ajax, in Piccadilly, glorious in a
frock-coat and varnished boots. I have seen him, as Gloriana saw him
for the first time, in rags that might provoke the scorn of Lazarus.
With the thermometer at a hundred in the shade, custom curtseys to
convenience. Ajax boasted with reason that the loosening of a single
safety-pin left him in condition for a plunge into the pool at the
foot of the corral.
"I hope you're well, lord," said the little woman; "an' if ye ain't,
why--what I've got here'll do ye more good than a doctor. I reckon ye
hev a mother, an' naterally she thinks the world of ye.
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