To his surprise, the baby slowly slipped from his arms and slid down to the floor without a word. Papa watched him with amusement; never thinking he would hold out.
“Change your mind, baby,” he said, coaxingly. “You’re not a Democrack now, are you?”
Kenneth looked back, wistfully. He was half-way across the floor.
“I is a Demo-crack—” he answered, without wavering.
“Then you’ll have to get into your own crib,” said papa, teasingly.
Without a word the baby went on, climbed up on a chair and tumbled head over heels into his own nest.
Fifteen minutes later, when papa got up to dress, he found his little son cuddled down in a forlorn little ball, with his thumb tucked into his mouth, and his blue eyes grave and wide.
Kenneth hid his head on papa’s shoulder, when he lifted him up and petted him; but he had nothing to say. By-and-by he wriggled away from him and crept up to mamma, who was sitting before the dressing-table, brushing her hair, as bright as baby’s own.
“Mamma,” he whispered, very softly, “I isn’t a Demo-crack now, but I don’t want papa to see me chain my mind.”
Kenneth’s mind was destined to give him more trouble that very day, for, with all his sweetness, he was very persistent.