“I am his mother, and have to amuse him—judiciously!” returned Mrs. Carmichael. “You don’t know what a responsibility children are, Mr. Butterfield.”
“I appreciate your feelings, madam,” I replied. “I remember in my youth I kept white mice. Now, white mice——”
“White fiddlesticks,” said Mrs. Kit. “A bachelor has absolutely no idea of what trouble children are. They take the whole of your time—they are constantly to be watched—you never know what mischief they are up to.”
“I kept four white mice, Mrs. Carmichael, with power to add. You have only one——”
“Oh, but Chris is so mischievous! He’s so full of spirits. Scarcely an hour since he nearly broke his neck trying to climb a handrail, under the impression it was a beanstalk—that was one of your stories, Mr. Butterfield,—and last night he managed to get Simple Simon into his prayers.”
I shook my head.
“An inherited irreligious tendency,” I replied. “He’s probably got that from his father. I remember Kit——”
“Rubbish! It’s just pure animal spirits. Chris is getting so big and strong—and noisy,” she added, as Chris broke away with the shout of pagan infancy.
“In that case, Mrs. Carmichael,” I answered, “a reducing diet of cinder-tea, judiciously administered——”
“Cinder-tea? What do you know about cinder-tea?—Chris, put your arm through here—a bachelor talking about cinder-tea!”