"I told you he was a _singular_ child," resumed the pedagogue, with a most awkward attempt at a smile. "The singularity to which I allude," said the lady, "is his finding kindness so singular." "Kind! bless you, my dear madam," said they both together; "you can't conceive how much we love the little dear." "It was but yesterday," said Mrs Root, "that I was telling the lady of Mr Alderman Jenkins--we have the five Jenkinses, ma'am--that Master Rattlin was the sweetest, genteelist, and beautifullest boy in the whole school." "It was but yesterday," said Mr Root, "that I was saying to Doctor Duncan (our respected rector, madam), that Master Rattlin had evinced such an uncommon talent, that we might, by-and-by, expect the greatest things from him. Not yet ten months with me, madam. Already in Phaedrus--the rule of three--and his French master gives the best account of him. He certainly has not begun to speak it yet, though he has made a vast progress in the French language. But it is Monsieur le Gros's system to make his pupils thoroughly master of the language before they attempt to converse in it. And his dancing, my dear madam-- Oh, it would do your heart good to see him dance. Such grace, such elasticity, and such happiness in his manner!" A pause--and then they exclaimed together, with a long-drawn sentimental sigh, "And we both love him so." "I am glad to hear so good an account of him," said the lady. "I hope, Ralph, that you love Mr and Mrs Root, for they seem very kind to you." "No, I don't." Mr and Mrs Root lifted their hands imploringly to heaven. "Not love me!" they both exclaimed together, with a tone of heartfelt surprise and wounded sensibility, that would have gone far to have made the fortune of a sentimental actor. "Come here, sir, directly," said Mr Root. "Look me full in the face, sir. You are a singular boy, yet I _did_ think you loved me. Don't be frightened, Ralph, I would not give you _pain_ on any account; and you know I never did. Now tell me, my dear boy," gradually softening from the terrible to the tender, "tell me, my dear boy, why you fancy you do not love me. You see, madam, that I encourage sincerity--and like, at all times, the truth to be spoken out. Why don't you love me, Ralph dear?" pinching my ear with a spiteful violence, that was meant for gracious playfulness in the eyes of the lady, and an intelligible hint for myself. I was silent. "Come, Ralph, speak your mind freely. No one will do you any harm for it, I am sure. Why don't you love Mr Root?" said the lady. I was ashamed to speak of my floggings, and I looked upon his late abandonment and negligence as kindness. I knew not what to say, yet I knew I hated him most cordially. I stammered, and at last I brought out this unfortunate sentence, "Because he has got such an ugly, nasty voice."