“A little boy, Zaidee?” said auntie, laying down her book. “What do you mean?”
“We finded him, auntie, he’s ours,” said Zaidee, earnestly. “Come and see him.”
“We finded him down by the brook, in our play-house,” chimed in Helen. “He’s ours, auntie. He’s awful cunning. We’re going to keep him and feed him as we did the kitty that we finded once, and when Kenneth comes home they can be twins, just like us.”
“But, children,” exclaimed auntie, “it must be Phelps. Where is he? Why didn’t you speak before? You said you hadn’t seen him.”
“It isn’t Phelps,” insisted Zaidee. “He’s ours. We finded him. He hasn’t any name, only just Boy. He doesn’t live anywhere. He said so. Please let us keep him,” she pleaded. “Mamma let us keep the kitty.”
“You ridiculous children,” said auntie. “A little boy isn’t like a cat. Tell me where he is, now.”
“He’s in the laundry, where we put the kitty. He’s getting used to us. He’s real good, and he doesn’t cry at all; he won’t be a bit of trouble!” begged Helen.
Auntie flew down stairs, the children following, and protesting all the way against his being sent off. Auntie unlocked the laundry door hastily and looked in. There sat Master Brown-Eyes, exactly as they had left him an hour before.
“Phelps are hungry,” he announced at once, looking reproachfully at the twins.
Auntie picked up the patient baby in her arms.