At that instant the misused infant, dragging a train of iron cars behind him, hove into view.
"Chu-chu-chu!" he droned. "Det out the way! Here tomes the 'spress train!" His cherubic countenance was serene and rosy; he beamed impartially upon his parents as he scuffed across the floor.
"Well," said his father, endeavouring (unsuccessfully) to view the matter in a serious light, "I fail to observe any signs of violent abuse or tokens of abject fear about the young person; I guess you didn't——"
"Hush, Sam! I hope he's forgotten it—the darling! Do you love mother, baby?"
"I'm a dreat big engine-man!" vociferated the infant, submitting cheerfully to his mother's kisses, "an' I love 'oo more'n a sousand million! Chu-chu! Toot-toot! Ding-dong!"
"How about the other young Brewsters?" inquired their father, with a twinkle of mock solicitude in his blue eyes. "Have they been pursuing the undeviating paths of rectitude, or have you—er—been moved to——"
"Sam, if you make fun of me about—what I did to Richard, I——" her voice broke, and she hid her eyes on his shoulder. "I thought," she said, "that it was my duty to tell you."
"I'm not making fun of you, little woman. Perish the thought!" and he kissed her convincingly. "I don't know what I should—or shouldn't do—if I had to cope with the young miscreants single-handed all day. Where is Doris, by the way?"
She told him about the broken bay-rum bottle, and described the scene at the luncheon table. "I was so ashamed," she concluded; "but what could I do?"