“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.