“Oh, I s’pose it’ll bother me like ginger; but if I say I won’t, I won’t; will I, uncle?”
“I think he is to be trusted, Fräulein,” testified that witness.
Ruth stooped down and raised Fritzy to her lap.
“Listen, little one; we are Friends—Quakers—in this household. Our yea is yea, and our nay, nay. Thee is Quaker, too, on thy mother’s side, and I am going to believe it is she who speaks through thee. Now thee may kiss me and go to Don.”
“I hope he will not be tempted to break his word,” commented Aunt Ruth, as the lad disappeared like a flash through the open doorway.
“He may be tempted, but he will not break it,” answered Uncle Fritz, quietly.
“Thee speaks strongly, and he is—such a child.”
“Because he is—such a child, dear Fräulein. They are all dear and delightful, but little Fritz,—he is my one ‘sweet pickle.’”
Smiling at this very evident truth, Aunt Ruth, with a greatly relieved heart, followed “little Fritz.”