"Him makes the flowers in the garden," observed Max.
"Yes, dear, you know He does," answered mamma, her eyes turning back to her book again. "Good-night, Maxie."
"Good-night, mamma. But mamma—"
"Well, dear," without looking up this time.
"I was just thinking, when Him's done down here, you know, and wants to go up there again, what a very long ladder Him must need."
"Yes, of course," said mamma, quite lost in her story by now.
"I wonder," continued Max, "I wonder if Him ever leaves it in the garden after Him's gone up—after Him has been doing the flowers, you know, mamma."
"I daresay—yes, very likely. Now do go, Max."
"Does you really think so, mamma?" and Max's eyes, which had begun to look as if the dustman had been passing by, grew bright and eager again. "I'll look and see if I can't find it then, some day," he said to himself, as he climbed up-stairs. For Max felt sure that whatever mamma said must be true. And wonderful dreams came to the little four-year-old man that night—dreams compared with which, all that Jack found at the top of his famous bean-stalk would have seemed nothing.