The little chuckle that gave Chuckles his name came at the close of his speech. He was evidently gloating over his aunt's supposed remorse when she found him gone.
Monica suppressed a smile, and called out:
"Chuckles, are you awake?"
There was no answer. The whispering was over. She advanced into the room, and lighted a candle. Matches were not allowed in the child's room, but she carried a silver fusee case in her pocket. Then she saw that the bedclothes were pulled tightly over the small boy's head, and the little figure was rigidly still.
"Chuckles, it's nearly supper time. Would you like to come down?"
No answer or movement.
"I believe there's a hot baked apple for a little boy who is going to be good."
Then the bedclothes were thrown back, and Chuckles' curly head was thrust upwards. Not yet would he entirely capitulate.
"I'm very busy saying my p'ayers. God and me don't want to be 'asturbed!"
"I'm sorry," said Monica meekly. "I'll wait."