“Oh, no, not quite all burned,” laughed his father. “Why didn’t you come down with your fire engine and help put the blaze out, Trouble?” he asked, teasingly.
“Mother—she now—she wouldn’t let me,” stammered the little fellow, getting ready to take a spoonful of oatmeal and milk. But somehow or other, he missed his aim and part of the spoon’s contents spilled on the table.
“Oh, look what you did!” cried Janet. “Look, Trouble!”
Trouble looked. He often soiled the tablecloth and more than once he had been scolded for it, as his mother did not want him to fall into careless table manners.
“Now you did it!” cried Janet.
“Yep—yep—I did spill some milk,” admitted Trouble. “But—but you—you—now—you now—lost mother’s diamond locket!” accused the little fellow.
“Never mind, Trouble! It couldn’t be helped,” said his father, as he took up the spilled milk.
“Oh, dear!” sighed Janet. “I’m so sorry, Mother, and I——”
“Never mind, my dear!” soothed Mrs. Martin. “We may find the locket yet.”
But there were tears in the little girl’s eyes, and Ted, too, felt a bit sad, for he thought that in moving about the boxes in the playhouse he might have knocked the locket down into some hole or crack where it could never be found.