"Green!" he echoed.
"Haven't you ever heard that the moon is made of green cheese?" I asked.
He stared at me reproachfully.
"You're laughing at me," he said, in an aggrieved voice, "and I don't like you to laugh."
"I won't any more, dear," I said, composing my countenance to a becoming expression of gravity. "If I were you, I should paint the moon pale blue. How would that do?"
"Loverly," answered the little beggar in a mollified voice, and for a moment or two there was again silence.
Then, however, I heard something like a whimper, and looking up I saw Chris's great eyes fixed on me tearfully.
"What is the matter?" I inquired.
"Will my Granny never, never be able to speak again?" he asked, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "Will she always be never able to talk?"
"Why, no, dear," I answered cheerfully. "In a day or two she will be able to talk again as well as ever."