But Baby could not go to sleep again. His mind was still running on packing. If he could but have a little box of his own to pack his own treasures in, then he would be sure none would be forgotten. He did not want a big trunk—not one in which he could be shuttened up like mother, but just a nice little one. If mother would give him one! Stay—where had he seen one, just what he wanted, was it in the nursery or in the cupboard where Fritz kept his garden-tools and his skates, and all the big boy things which Baby too hoped to have of his own some day? No, it was not there. It must have been—yes, it was in the pantry when he went to ask James for a glass of water. Up on a shelf, high up it stood, "a tiny sweet little t'unk," said Herr Baby to himself, "wouldn't mother let him have it?" He would ask her this morning as soon as he saw her. Then he lay still and thought over to himself all the things he would pack in the tiny sweet little t'unk; his best Bible with his name
"Raymond Arthur Aylmer,"
in the gold letters on the back, should have the nicest corner, of course, and his "scented purse," as he called the Russia leather purse which grandfather had given him on his last birthday, that would go nicely beside the Bible, and his watch that really ticked as long as you turned the key in it—all those things would fit in, nicely packed in "totton wool," of course, and crushy paper. The thought of it all made Baby's fingers fidget with eagerness to begin his packing. If only mother would give him the box! It must be mother's, for if it was James's he would keep it in his own room instead of up on the pantry shelf among all the glasses and cups. If Baby could just see it again he would know 'ezackly if it would do!
Baby looked about him. Everything was perfectly still, he heard no one moving about the house—Denny had said it was only half-past six.
"Denny," said Baby softly.
No reply.
"Denny," a very little louder.
Still no reply; but Baby, by leaning over the edge of his cot a little, could see that Denny's eyes were shut, and her nose was half buried in the pillow in the way she always turned it when she went to sleep. Denny had gone to sleep again.
"Zes," said Herr Baby to himself; "her's a'leep—her's beazing so soft."
He looked about him again; he stuck one little warm white foot out of bed—it did feel rather cold; he felt more than half inclined just to cuddle himself up warm again and lie still till Lisa came to dress him. But the thought of the little t'unk was too much for him.