The little boy clapped his hands.
“Let me do it!” he cried. “I’m going to pretend that I am—well—a sort of a—” It was much easier telling Nora things than Mrs. Darling. Some people have such an understanding way.
“Sure,” broke in Nora, “it’s a king he’s goin’ to be, with us a-bowin’ an’ a-scrapin’ before him!”
“I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind,” said the little boy, apologetically, a pink flush mounting into his pale cheeks. “You see, it would only be pretending, and I—guess—perhaps—Patrick, and the cook, and Nora wouldn’t mind pretending, on Christmas, just this once, when it’s only a make-believe Christmas, after all.”
“You can be as big a king as you want to,” said Mrs. Darling, with a laugh, “if you eat the chicken soup I’ve brought you and the buttered toast.”
The little boy sighed contentedly and obediently tucked a napkin under his chin. He could feed himself now. He was very glad of that. But to-night his hand trembled a bit, and he set down his spoon hastily.
“I don’t believe I want any soup,” he said slowly, but Mrs. Darling shook her head.
“Here, let me give it to you. And then you’ll have time after dinner to think up what you are going to do. I believe we could roast some of the chestnuts Patrick picked up to-day.”
So the little boy drank each mouthful as quickly as he could, and munched the toast without speaking another word. After he had finished, Mrs. Darling brought him a pad and pencil.
“Here, Your Majesty,” she said, smiling, “write down your commands.” The little boy’s eyes brightened, and he looked up at her shyly.