And in spite of that—and what child would not be pleased to have a puppy for his very own?—the queer little feeling still stayed with Sunny Boy. It was like a small lump of lead right down at the end of his throat.
“I’m going up to the house now for the milk pails,” announced Jimmie, when they had finished looking at the puppies. “You can come out and watch me milk if you want to.”
In the kitchen they found Mother and Grandma.
“Don’t let Topaz in,” said Grandma, as Jimmie opened the door. “That wretched cat has eaten half my egg custard, and I won’t have him in the house again to-night.”
Araminta was setting the table in the dining room and did not hear. Sunny Boy gulped a little, but spoke up bravely.
“’Twasn’t Topaz, Grandma. I knocked the custard over, looking for cake. I didn’t mean to, but my hand slipped.”
Then how he did cry!
But when the whole story had come out, and Grandma had hugged him, and had said not to mind, that she could make another pudding in a minute; after Mother had whispered to him that while it was naughty to help oneself to cake without asking, it was much worse to let the kitty-cat be blamed, and had kissed him and assured him she was sure he would not do it again; after Araminta had given him a pink peppermint—after all this, and Sunny Boy was on his way to the barn with Jimmie to watch the milking, do you know, that queer little feeling had entirely disappeared!