"Are you very ill, my Granny?" he inquired very seriously, and sinking his voice to the sympathizing whisper which seemed to him to befit the occasion.
"Not very ill, darling," she whispered again with an effort; "only a very bad cold.
"I am quite losing my voice," she added to me, shaking her head. "Most trying, my dear."
"How drefful!" exclaimed Chris with sympathy, and still speaking in a whisper. "What a drefful thing!"
"I have a good piece of news for you, my Chris," she whispered, with another effort. "Someone is coming home—to-day—this very afternoon—that you and I shall be—very, very—glad to see. Who do you think it is?"
Chris considered a moment, then suddenly looked enlightened.
"I know, I know!" he cried, jumping about and clapping his hands, in the excess of his joy forgetting to whisper, and putting to their full use his well-developed little lungs. "I know!" he repeated. "It's my Uncle Godfrey. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"
Granny nodded, and held up a telegram. "I've just had this," she said, with an attempt to regain her natural tone, which ended in an almost inaudible whisper, and her voice going away completely. "Few nights ... way to London.... Isn't ... treat ... pet?" she whispered brokenly. "Must be ... quiet ... tired."
"Yes," I put in, taking upon myself to act as interpreter; "Granny is very tired, Chris; so if you stay here, you must be quiet."
"Did I make a noise and tire my Granny, and was I a naughty boy?" he asked penitently, becoming very subdued in voice and manner.