'Why, it's "The Master of Ballantrae!"' I exclaimed, shocked.
'So it is!' said my mother, equally surprised.

But I looked sternly at her, and perhaps she blushed.
'Well what do you think: not nearly equal to mine ?' said I with humour.
'Nothing like them,' she said determinedly.
'Not a bit,' said I, though whether with a smile or a groan is immaterial; they would have meant the same thing.

Should I put the book back on its shelf?
I asked, and she replied that I could put it wherever I liked for all she cared, so long as I took it out of her sight (the implication was that it had stolen on to her lap while she was looking out at the window).

My behaviour may seem small, but I gave her a last chance, for I said that some people found it a book there was no putting down until they reached the last page.
'I'm no that kind,' replied my mother.
Nevertheless our old game with the haver of a thing, as she called it, was continued, with this difference, that it was now she who carried the book covertly upstairs, and I who replaced it on the shelf, and several times we caught each other in the act, but not a word said either of us; we were grown self-conscious.

Much of the play no doubt I forget, but one incident I remember clearly.