"A very good boy; as good as Uncle Godfrey," Chris said brightening up, as he saw that he was to be blamed no more.
"That's my pet," she said, covering him up and tucking in the bed-clothes.
"I'm so glad," she continued to me as we went downstairs, "that he came round, and was good in the end. But I knew he would. Sulkiness is not one of his faults; no, no, nobody could say that.
"I suppose," she went on a little uneasily, "Godfrey would tell me that I ought to have been more severe with the child. 'You've let the little beggar off too easily, mother,'—that's what he would say. But between ourselves, my dear, I sometimes think that officers in the army are accustomed to such obedience, such implicit obedience, that they are at times inclined to carry their love of discipline too far. Don't you agree with me? Not that Godfrey is a martinet! Oh, no! he is far from that; such a favourite, so beloved by the men under his command. But you understand what I mean, do you not?
"However," she concluded, with a certain relief, and as a salve to her conscience in the shape of her son Godfrey's opinion, "now I think of it, I did tell the poor darling that if he had not been ill I should have felt obliged to punish him. Of course, so I did. That will serve as a warning to him in the future; won't it, my dear?"
CHAPTER VI.
A PASTE-MAN AND A PAINT-BOX.
"I can't, my pet; I can't tell you a story to-day," said, or rather whispered, Granny huskily. "I have such a bad cold I can hardly speak."
Chris looked at her solemnly with wide-open eyes.