Page:Tom Beauling (1901).pdf/52

 liquid bitterness, and no more tears would come, he was given to eat. But not real food; spoiled children food—bread spread with butter, butter spread high with brown sugar, crunching deliciously; jumbles, each with a hole in the middle which you could stick your finger through, raspberry shrub—the food upon which little gods are fed—tarts, and (I whisper it) a glass of apple brandy. With that he slept, and while his earthly disposition was being argued in the dining-room he dreamed of three diversdiverse [sic] dogs that gamboled gloriously in a meadow, and in his dream he gave delicious chase, and rolled over and over in the delightful grass. But the pitiful cook looked upon his face in sleep, and when he wrinkled up his little nose with the ardor of pursuit, rocked her body and wept, as is customary with the Irish when moved by little things or great.

"First and last," said Judge Tyler, "I will not allow my feelings to dictate to me in this matter. The boy is bright and pretty, and I won't say that it