“Now,” said his aunt, “I think you might carry down some of these things. Suppose you first take the books. Not too many at a time—can you manage all those?”
“Oh yes. I could take more quite well,” was the reply, for Jasper was a most zealous helper.
“I don’t think I want to send down any more, thank you, dear. I will keep most of my books up here, on those nice little shelves.”
So off trotted the small messenger with his load. Perhaps he was too careful, glancing so often at the pile of books that he did not glance enough at his own feet, for just as he was half-way down the last stair, there came an accident. Somehow or other he tripped and rolled down six or seven steps, the books on the top of him. Poor Jasper! He did not cry out, though for a moment or two he could scarcely keep back his tears—he felt bruised and giddy and rather mortified. But he was a very brave as well as patient little fellow, and he was struggling to his feet again when the dining-room door opened and Chrissie looked out.
“What was that noise?” she said. “Oh, it’s you, Japs—have you fallen downstairs?”
“Yes, I has,” he replied, “but please don’t tell Aunt Marg’ret or she won’t let me help her any more. I hasn’t hurt myself much.”
“Poor Jasper,” said Chrissie, “never mind. It’s a good thing you were only carrying books, not china or glass. Leila’s done enough in that way for to-day. But I say, how pretty some of these books are,” and she held up a small, beautifully bound prayer-book, and another “birthday book,” exquisitely illuminated.
“Yes,” said Jasper, “I fink they’re Auntie’s bestest books. She’s goin’ to keep them in the droind-room, on her table.”
“I’ll help you to carry them in,” said Chrissie, and so she did—the carpet by this time was beginning to dry, though only beginning!—“I wish somebody would give me a prayer-book like this,” she went on. “I’d love to take it to church.”
And then, their pile being safely deposited, Jasper turned to go upstairs again, though limping a little.