And there is a subdued tone in her speech which touches the boy. But he is not ready yet for surrender; he watches gravely her retirement, and for an hour shows a certain preoccupation at his play; then his piping voice is heard at the foot of the stairway,-- "Aunt Eliza! Are you there?" "Yes, Master Reuben!" Master! It cools somewhat his generous intent; but he is in for it; and he climbs the stair, sidles uneasily into the chamber where she sits at her work, stealing a swift, inquiring look into that gray eye of hers,-- "I say--Aunt Eliza--I'm sorry I said that--you know what." And he looks up with a little of the old yearning,--the yearning he used to feel when another sat in that place. "Ah, that is right, Master Reuben! I hope we shall be friends, now." Another disturbed look at her,--remembering the time when he would have leaped into a mother's arms, after such struggle with his self-will, and found gladness. That is gone; no swift embrace, no tender hand toying with his hair, beguiling him from play. And he sidles out again, half shamefaced at a surrender that has wrought so little. Loitering, and playing with the balusters as he descends, the swift, keen voice comes after him,-- "Don't soil the paint, Reuben!" "I haven't." And the swift command and as swift retort put him in his old, wicked mood again, and he breaks out into a defiant whistle. (Over and over the spinster has told him it was improper to whistle in-doors.) Yet, with a lingering desire for sympathy, Reuben makes his way into his father's study; and the minister lays down his great folio,--it is Poole's "Annotations,"--and says,-- "Well, Reuben!" "I told her I was sorry," says the boy; "but I don't believe she likes me much." "Why, my son?" "Because she called me Master, and said it was very proper." "But doesn't that show an interest in you?" "I don't know what interest is." "It's love." "Mamma never called me Master," said Reuben. The grave minister bites his lip, beckons his boy to him,--"Here, my son!"--passes his arm around him, had almost drawn him to his heart,-- "There, there, Reuben; leave me now; I have my sermon to finish. I hope you won't be disrespectful to your aunt again. Shut the door." And the minister goes back to his work, ironly honest, mastering his sensibilities, tearing great gaps in his heart, even as the anchorites once fretted their bodies with hair-cloth and scourgings.