“Yes,” he yawned, gratefully seizing upon her suggestion. “I'm awfully sleepy. Give me the candle, Jessie,” he said, snatching it from her hand. “I want to go downstairs.”
“Hughie, you are very rude. What would your mother say? Let me have the candle immediately, I want to get Robbie's stockings.”
Hughie's heart stood still.
“I'll throw them down, Jessie. I want the candle downstairs just a minute.”
“Leave that candle with me,” insisted Jessie. “There's another on the dining-room table you can get.”
“I'll not be a minute,” said Hughie, hurrying downstairs. “You come down, Jessie, I want to ask you something. I'll throw you Robbie's stockings.”
“Come back here, the rude boy that you are,” said Jessie, crossly, “and bring me that candle.”
There was no reply. Hughie was standing, pale and shaking, in the dining-room, listening intently for Jessie's step. Would she go into his room, or would she come down? Every moment increased the agony of his fear.
At length, with a happy inspiration, he went to the cupboard, opened the door noisily, and began rattling the dishes.
“Mercy me!” he heard Jessie exclaim at the top of the stair. “That boy will be my death. Hughie,” she called, “just shut that cupboard! You know your mother doesn't like you to go in there.”