Jimmy-boy came in swinging his basket on his arm. It was a remarkably pretty Indian basket; and ever since Aunt Vi had given it to him two weeks ago, it had travelled with him wherever he went.
“Jimmy,” said his mother as the little feet reached the threshold, “Jimmy, I would like to see you in the study.”
The tone was grave; the boy looked up in alarm. Mamma was sure to be “in earnest” when she spoke like this, and wished to see him in the study.
The moment they entered the study she closed the door and turned and looked at him. What was she going to say?
“Jamie, O Jamie! did you carry it off in the basket?”
“Carry what off, mamma?”
“He speaks very innocently, as if it were quite new to him,” thought his mother.
She took the basket from his hand, and measured it with her eye. Yes, it was large enough; it could easily have held the whole loaf. But it was empty now. If Jimmy had carried off the loaf to show to the boys, he had not brought it back.
“My son, where is the cake I baked and frosted this morning?”