Dimmie, still silent, winked harder than ever.
“Nannie didn’t punish you. It was Mamma,” she pursued.
“You made her,” he insisted accusingly.
“No, I didn’t, Jimmie. If I had known she was going to send you up here I wouldn’t have said anything.” Nannie’s voice was sweet and low.
“My name ain’t Jimmie. It’s Dimmie,” he stipulated, weakening.
“Oh, yes. I forgot, Dimmie. See I’ve brought you some candy,” she continued, displaying the treasure.
Dimmie’s face lighted and he put out his hand.
“Wait a minute, Jimmie—Dimmie, I mean.” Nannie pushed his hand away.
The tragedy fell on Dimmie’s soul again.
“It’s yours, Jimmie, but you mustn’t try to grab things like that.”
“Can I have all of it?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes. It’s all for you if you will love Nannie.”
The bribe changed hands. Dimmie was beaming.
“Now kiss Nannie,” she commanded. “Don’t touch me with your sticky fingers,” she warned as he obeyed.
“Come on. Let’s go and find Mother,” she smiled invitingly.
“She won’t let me,” declared Dimmie, reminiscent of past similar attempts.
“Yes, she will. I’ll go with you,” and Nannie led him down the stairs. “You’ll mind Nannie after this, won’t you, dear?”
“Yes,” he promised.
“He’s going to be a good boy now, Lucy,” Nannie announced as they reached the dining room, “and he’s sorry he was rude to Nannie. Aren’t you, Jimmie?”
The culprit looked at the paper bag in his hand.
“Yes,” he said, “but my name’s Dimmie.”
“Oh, yes! I forgot. Of course it is,” smiled Nannie.
“Well, I hope my sonny boy won’t say anything like that again,” Lucy said.
Dimmie went off with his candy, meditating.
An hour later Lucy decided to take some patterns over to Mrs. Hamilton who, a few days before, had expressed a wish to borrow them.
“Now, you stay with your grandmother,” she bade Dimmie. “I won’t be long.”
“All right,” he agreed, examining the interior of the now empty paper bag with evident regret.
A few moments after Lucy’s departure he began to whistle.
“Don’t whistle, Jimmie,” commanded Nannie from the rocking chair where she sat embroidering.
Dimmie ceased obediently and climbed into the Morris chair.
“Don’t sit with your feet under you,” she advised. “You’ll scratch the chair.”
Dimmie dutifully altered his position. After a time he slid to the floor and, going over to the side table where some of his nursery books were kept, selected Mother Goose from among them.
“Don’t carry your book that way,” warned Nannie as he trudged back to the seat he had quitted, his favorite volume hugged under his arm. “You’ll wrench the cover off.”
Dimmie duly reversed the position of the book.
“Don’t put your fingers in your mouth, Jimmie. You’re too big a boy to do that,” she continued, when he had seated himself for a comfortable examination of the illustrations he admired.
He glanced up from his book and at the same time thrust the offending fingers into a pocket.
“Now, don’t sit with your hands in your pockets. You’ll pull your clothes all out of shape.”
“How shall I sit?” demanded Dimmie somewhat belligerently.
“Sit straight in your chair like you ought to.”
“Uncle Jim never makes me sit straight in my chair,” objected Dimmie.
“I don’t care what Uncle Jim does. You do as I tell you. And use your handkerchief. Don’t sniff.”
“I ain’t got any handkerchief,” he complained, rummaging in his pockets.
“I don’t know what your mamma means by not giving you a handkerchief. Why, there it is on the floor by your chair, right where you dropped it!”
“Don’t rumple your hair, Jimmie! It makes you look like a scarecrow,” was the next admonition.
“What can I do?” demanded Dimmie, looking about desperately.
“You can sit still and be a good little boy until Mamma comes back.”
“I don’t want to sit still,” he insisted.
“But I want you to.”
“When is Mamma coming home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to Mis’ Hamilton’s to find her.”
“No, you’re not going to do any such thing.”
Dimmie began to cry.
“Now, Jimmie, there’s no use in your crying, just because I want you to behave yourself half decently. Stop this instant!”
“I—I—w—want my m—mamma,” sobbed Dimmie louder than ever.
“What in the world is the matter?” cried Lucy agitatedly, at this moment coming in through the kitchen on her return from her neighbor’s.
“It means that you have a very naughty little boy, Lucy. He wouldn’t do anything I told him while you were away.”
“I d—did too,” declared Dimmie between sobs. “I d—did lots of things.”
“Well, you wouldn’t sit still when I told you,” said Nannie.
“He’s a very little boy to have to sit still such a long time,” replied Lucy, taking Dimmie on her lap where he began to cry comfortably with his head against her bosom.
“Lucy, I’d like to know how you expect me to have any control over the child when you take his part like that!” Nannie protested.
“I don’t expect anyone to have control over him except his father and myself,” said Lucy.
“Yet you expect me to look after him without any authority over him whatever!” retorted Mrs. Merwent.
“I won’t worry you with him again, Mamma,” returned Lucy. “I didn’t think you would mind for a few minutes.”
“There you go, Lucy! Misunderstanding me again, as usual. And over such a trivial thing, too! Much gratitude I’ve received for overlooking the past and coming more than halfway! I sometimes think dear Mother was right when she said you had no heart. She never got over the way you treated her.”
After John and Lucy had retired to their room that night, Lucy said, “I am going to send Dimmie to kindergarten, John. Mrs. Hamilton’s little girl goes, and I believe it’s a good thing for young children.”
“All right,” consented John, yawning.
Dimmie was in such a state of excitement over the prospect of going to kindergarten with Stella Hamilton that he could hardly eat his breakfast. Lucy had dressed him in his prettiest suit, and, after the meal, he wandered aimlessly about the house, too conscious of his ceremonious costume to play.
“Ain’t it time yet, Mamma?” he asked again and again.
“No, dear, not yet,” his mother replied on each occasion.
Mrs. Merwent was still asleep when Lucy telephoned
