James Fox looked approval of this answer.
“I am glad you came with him.”
By this time Frank had slid from the bed and put his hand in Ernest’s.
“Come here,” he said, “and I will show you my books.”
Led by his small companion Ernest went up to a bookcase which he had not before observed in the main room. About thirty books stood on the shelves.
“Where did you get your books?” he asked.
“Papa bought them for me in Minneapolis. Were you ever in Minneapolis?”
“It is a nice place. Sometimes I think I would like to live there instead of here.”
“You are not getting tired of home, are you, Frank?” asked his father half reproachfully.