"I am sorry I don't know the story," I returned. "Who is it
by?"
"Mr. Raymond made it."
"Is he your uncle?" I asked at a guess.
"No. He's my master."
"What do you do for him?" I asked respectfully.
"Anything he wishes me to do," he answered. "I am busy for
him now. He gave me this story to read. He wants my opinion upon
it."
"Don't you find it rather hard to make up your mind?"
"Oh dear no! Any story always tells me itself what I'm to
think about it. Mr. Raymond doesn't want me to say whether it is
a clever story or not, but whether I like it, and why I like it.
I never can tell what they call clever from what they call
silly, but I always know whether I like a story or not."
"And can you always tell why you like it or not?"
"No. Very often I can't at all. Sometimes I can. I always
know, but I can't always tell why. Mr. Raymond writes the
stories, and then tries them on me. Mother does the same when
she makes jam. She's made such a lot of jam since we came here!
And she always makes me taste it to see if it'll do. Mother
knows by the face I make whether it will or not."
At this moment I caught sight of two more children
approaching. One was a handsome girl, the other a pale-faced,
awkward-looking boy, who limped much on one leg.
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