“Mother Goose isn’t rubbish, is she?” pleaded Dorothy.
“Never,” declared Uncle John. “Mother Goose is a luxury—a positive luxury, my dear.”
“And Santa, dear old Santa, he’s good, too, isn’t he?” coaxed the child.
“A necessity, my pet, a real necessity, splendid fellow!” exclaimed the man.
“O, I’m so glad to hear you say so,” cried Dorothy, and she cuddled up closer to the great professor and put her little hands confidingly in his.
“There is a man in the moon?” questioned Dorothy suddenly.
“There is, there is, my pet,” cried Uncle John Philip, “and a lady too, and baby stars, and—and all that sort of thing, my dear.”
“O, goody, do tell me about it!” cried Dorothy.
Uncle John Philip smiled at the eager little face that looked into his, full of confidence.
The touch of childish hands sent a thrill through the great professor. He felt twenty years younger, and forty years happier.