"I can't," said Uncle Godfrey, in his usual decided manner. "I have to finish my letters."
"Then, Miss Beggarley," he asked, with the air of one making the best of an unpromising state of affairs, "will you tell me a story?"
"Not now, dear," I answered. "I am just turning the heel of this sock, and I can't think of that and a story too."
"Not even Miss Beggarley can tell me a story!" said Chris, sitting down, with a disconsolate expression, beside Jacky on the hearth-rug.
"Not even Miss Beggarley," I repeated laughing.
Chris, looking disappointed and injured, gave Jacky an irritable push, which resulted in an angry growl.
There was a deep sigh from the little beggar. "No one plays with me now," he said mournfully, "and Jacky growls. Naughty Jacky; I don't love you."
"Naughty Chris; it's time for you to go back to the nursery," remarked Uncle Godfrey half-smiling.
"Yes, my Chris; a few lessons, or a nice walk," Granny said, persuasively. "Now, go, like my little pet."
In spite, however, of her gentle persuasions, Chris looked as if he would like to protest, had he not lacked the courage to do so in the presence of Uncle Godfrey. It was, therefore, slowly and unwillingly that he went up the first flight of stairs, then sat on the landing and looked at the back of Uncle Godfrey's head as he bent over his writing.