“You poor little soul!” she exclaimed. But Brown-Eyes resisted strongly.
“Put me down,” he said, for his dignity was much hurt.
“Oh, are you going to send him away?” asked Helen, ready to cry. “Please let us keep him just till Kenneth comes home, then. He’s lots better than the kitty was.”
“He certainly is,” said auntie, laughing, “for kitty would not have stayed there quietly for so long.”
She was carrying struggling Phelps upstairs, while the twins tagged on behind.
“There’s Eliza and the men, now,” auntie said, when, breathless, she reached the piazza. “Run, Zaidee, and tell them that Phelps is found. Tell Mike to go to Mrs. Bennett’s and tell her.—There, my little man, eat some of these cookies and stop kicking.”
Phelps wriggled out of auntie’s lap, and preferred to eat his cookies, standing on his own two stout legs, while the twins eyed him, in deep disappointment.
Their visitor ate all the cookies there were left, and then he suddenly said, “I are doin’ home now,” and began to back down the steps in his own solemn fashion.
“Oh, Boy!” cried Helen, reproachfully; “you said you didn’t have any home.”
Brown-Eyes would not make any reply. He trudged down the avenue soberly.