Donald scrambled up, and rested his chin on the edge of the trunk to see his mamma put in the sofa-pillows, and spread blankets over them. “P’itty ’itty bed,” said he.
“So you think that’s a bed do you, little brother?” cried Kirke, much amused. “It does look like your cribby, that’s a fact.”
“P’itty ’itty mamma,” pursued the young rogue, throwing his arms about his mother’s neck, partly because he loved her, partly because he feared she was going to send him away.
“There, sweetheart, that will do,” said she at last, between his kisses. “Mamma is busy now. Brother must take little Donald down-stairs.”
“Pit-a-bat, pit-a-bat,” pleaded the baby. He saw he must go, and, as that was the case, preferred to go in state, riding on his brother’s back.
“Well, pick-a-back it is, then,” exclaimed Kirke, slinging the teasing child across his shoulders. In the lower hall he met Captain Bradstreet and Pauline.
“You’re the very young man I want to speak to,” cried the cheery captain; “I want”—
“Now, papa, Kirke’s not so very young, I’m sure,” interrupted Pauline archly.
Captain Bradstreet chuckled as though his motherless daughter had made a witty remark.
“True, my little girl, Kirke’s not so very young; but then, on the other hand, not so old as he may be later.”