So it is
with my mother. I let her go on and think me perfect. It does her good,
and it does me good because it makes me try to live up to that idea of
hers as to what I am. If she had the same opinion of me that we all have
she'd be the most miserable woman in the world."
"We don't all think so badly of you," said the Doctor, rather softened
by the Idiot's remarks.
"No," put in the Bibliomaniac. "You are all right. You breathe normally,
and you have nice blue eyes. You are graceful and pleasant to look upon,
and if you'd been born dumb we'd esteem you very highly. It is only your
manners and your theories that we don't like; but even in these we are
disposed to believe that you are a well-meaning child."
"That is precisely the way to put it," assented the School-master. "You
are harmless even when most annoying. For my own part, I think the most
objectionable feature about you is that you suffer from that
unfortunately not uncommon malady, extreme youth. You are young for your
age, and if you only wouldn't talk, I think we should get on famously
together."
"You overwhelm me with your compliments," said the Idiot. "I am sorry I
am so young, but I cannot be brought to believe that that is my own
fault. One must live to attain age, and how the deuce can one live when
one boards?"
As no one ventured to reply to this question, the force of which very
evidently, however, was fully appreciated by Mrs. Smithers, the Idiot
continued:
[Illustration: "'I THOUGHT MY FATHER A MEAN-SPIRITED ASSASSIN'"]
"Youth is thrust upon us in our infancy, and must be endured until such
a time as Fate permits us to account ourselves cured.
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