Never was there such a boy. "Boy" he was called from the first, never
"baby;" there was nothing of the baby about him. Before he was a year
old he ruled his mother, grandfather, and Uncle Duncan with a rod of
iron. Nay, the whole village were his slaves. "Miss Helen's bairn" was
a little king every where. It might have gone rather hard for the poor
wee fellow thus allegorically
"Wearing on his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty"
That dangerous sovereignty--any human being--to wield, had there
not been at least one person who was able to assume authority over him.
This was, strange to say--and yet not strange--the Earl of
Cairnforth.
From his earliest babyhood Boy had been accustomed to the sight of the
sight of the motionless figure in the moving chair, who never touched
him, but always spoke so kindly and looked around so smilingly; whom, he
could perceive--for children are quicker to notice things than we
some times think--his mother and grandfather invariably welcomed with
such exceeding pleasure, and treated with never-failing respect and
tenderness. And, as soon as he could crawl, the footboard of the
mysterious wheeled chair became to the little man a perfect
treasure-house of delight.
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