She was silent for a few moments, while she added the finishing touches to the already elaborate toilet of the cat. Then she seemed to repent of her sternness, for she dropped Mouse into a chair and went across to Leon’s sofa, where she sat down on the edge of it and laid one chubby arm across the boy’s shoulders, in a comically protecting fashion. She surveyed him for a moment, puckering up her small mouth, while her roguish brown eyes grew gentle and the heavy curls drooped till they brushed his cheek. Then, as if satisfied that he was neither hurt nor angry, she went on in a wheedling tone, as she nestled closer to him,—
“I’m so sorry you hurt you, Leon. Don’t you think you’d like to tell me a story?”
“A story!” groaned Leon despairingly, for as the youngest of the family, he knew little of children. “I’m afraid I’m not much good at stories, Gyp.”
“Why not?” inquired Gyp remorselessly. “Harry is. He says he used to have to tell them to you lots of times, when you were little and cross.”
Leon blushed, in spite of himself.
“What kind of stories do you like?” he asked, willing to change the subject.
“’Most any kind,” answered Gyp, reaching up to tuck the afghan around Leon’s chin and, at the same time, slyly moving his book out of his reach. “I like those best with ever so many wild animals in them, eflunts and bears and things; but they must always be true ones, ’cause mamma doesn’t want me to learn ’bout things that aren’t so.”
“But, Gyp,” remonstrated Leon, in dismay at this literary program; “I don’t know any true stories about wild animals.”
“I should think you could make up some,” answered Gyp logically. “I make ’em up, sometimes, and I’ll tell you one, if you want, by and by, after you’ve told me yours.”
“Tell me now,” urged Leon, hoping to gain time.