My father laughed, and put his hand on my shoulders.
"I have only been teasing you, Regie," he said.

"You know I told you there was no tutor in the case.

Mr.Andrewes and I were talking about this pony, and when Mr.Andrewes said _grey_, he spoke of the colour of the pony, and not of anybody's name." "Then is the pony yours ?" I asked.
My father looked at my eager face with a pleased smile.
"No, my boy," he said, "he is yours." The wild delight with which I received this announcement, the way I jumped and danced, and that Rubens jumped and danced with me, my gratitude and my father's satisfaction, the renewed amenities between myself and my pony, his obvious knowledge of the fact that I was his master, and the running commentary of the Irishman, I will not attempt to describe.
The purchase of this pony was indeed one of my father's many kind thoughts for my welfare and amusement.

My odd pilgrimage to the Rectory in search of change and society, and the pettish complaints of dulness and monotony at home which I had urged to account for my freak of "dropping in," had seemed to him not without a certain serious foundation.

Except for walks about the farm with him, and stolen snatches of intercourse with the grooms, and dogs, and horses in the stables (which both he and Nurse Bundle discouraged), I had little or no amusement proper to a boy of my age.