It amused me to analyze the subject of what his point of view would be likely to be. I knew it would be productive of immense entertainment to his acquaintances. I was sure that the duke would be subjected to sweet but searching cross-questioning, and that much lively interest would be felt in the subject of coronets. He would regard them as a species of eccentric hat. What questions he would ask, what enthusiasm he would display, when he was impressed by things beautiful or stately and interesting! Would he seem “a cheeky little beggar” to less republican minds than his own? I asked myself this curiously. But no, I was sure he would not. He would be so simple; he would expect such splendor of mind and of noble friendliness that the hypothetical duke would like him as Dan and Carrie did, and he would end by saying “My friend the Duke of Blankshire,” as affectionately as he had said “My friend the milkman.” It was only a thread of fancy for a while, but one day I had an idea. “I will write a story about him,” I said. “I will put him in a world quite new to him, and see what he will do. How shall I bring a small American boy into close relationship with an English nobleman—irascible, conservative, disagreeable? He must live with him, talk to him, show him his small, unconscious, republican mind. He will be more effective if I make him a child who has lived in the simplest possible way. Eureka! Son of younger son, separated from ill-tempered noble father because he has married a poor young American beauty. Young father dead, elder brothers dead, boy comes into title! How it would amaze him and bewilder him! Yes, there it is, and Vivian shall be he—just Vivian, with his curls and his eyes, and his friendly, kind little soul. Little Lord Something-or-other. What a pretty title—Little Lord ——, Little Lord —— what?” [Illustration: THE REAL FAUNTLEROY LISTENING TO THE STORY OF THE IDEAL FAUNTLEROY] And a day later it was Little Lord Fauntleroy. A story like that is easily written. In part, it was being lived before my eyes. “I can wash myself quite well, thank you,” he said, scrubbing vigorously one day. “I can do it quite well, dearest, if some one will just ’zamine the corners.” He had always spoken very clearly, but there were a few words his pronunciation of which endeared them inexpressibly to me. On the evening of the day before “Fauntleroy” spent his first morning with “Lord Dorincourt” he brought into my room a parlor base-ball game to show me. It was a lovely thing to see his delight over it, and to note the care with which he tried to make all technical points clear to an interested but unintelligent parent. What vigorous little attitudes he threw himself into when he endeavored to show me how the ball was thrown in the real game! “I’m afraid that I am a very stupid little mammy,” I said. “What does the first base do? And what is the pitcher for? I’m very dull, you see.”