you. I never put back meals for anybody," he remarked.
"Would you? Don't you? Then I'm glad, too. Isn't the frock pretty? My mamma worked all these flowers with her own little white hands. I love it. I had to kiss them before I could put it on," she said, again lifting her skirt and touching it with her lips.
"I suppose you love your mamma very dearly. What is she like?"
He was leading her along the hall toward the dining-room, and Peter, standing within its entrance, congratulated himself that he had laid the table for two. He glanced at his master's face, found it good-natured and interested, and took his own cue therefrom.
"She is like—she is like the most beautiful thing in the world, dear Uncle Joe. Don't you remember?" asked the astonished child.
"Well, no, not exactly."
"That's a pity, and you my papa's twin. Papa hasn't nice gray hair like yours, though, and there isn't any shiny bare place on top of his head. I mean there wasn't when he went
