“Wiv _buttins_?” he asks, and climbed up on his knees on a chair by the table and let his father go off without him, nice as the nicest. “I likes ’em wiv buttins,” he says--and Mis’ Puppy sort of kindled up in her throat, like a laugh that wants to love somebody. I donno as I know how to say it, but he was the kind of a little chap that, when you’re young, you always think _your_ little chap is going to be. Then when they do come, sometimes they’re dear and all that, but they ain’t quite exactly the way you thought of them being--though you forget that they ain’t, and you forget everything but loving ’em. But it was like this little boy was the way you’d meant. It wasn’t so much the way he looked--though he was beautiful, beautiful like some of the things you think and not like a calendar--but it was the way he _was_, kind of close up to you, and his breath coming past, and something you couldn’t name gentling round him. His father hadn’t been gone ten minutes when the little thing let me kiss him. “‘At was my last one,” he explained, sort of sorry, to Mis’ Puppy. “But you can have a bite off my soldier. That’s a better kiss.” Mis’ Puppy watched him for a while--he was sitting close down by the oven door to hear his soldier say _Hurrah_ the minute he was baked, if you please--and she kind of moved like her thoughts scraped by each other, and she says--and spells one word of it out: “Where do you s’pose his m-o-t-h-e-r is?” “My land, d-e-d,” I answers, “or she’d be setting over there kissing the back of his neck in the hollow.” “I’ve got,” says Mis’ Puppy, “kind of an idea she ain’t. Your boarder,” she says, “don’t look to me real what you might call a widower. He ain’t the air of one that’s had things ciphered out for him,” says she. “It’s more like he was still a-browsing round the back o’ the book for the answer.” And that was true, when you come to think of it; he did seem sort of quick-moved and hopeful, more like when you sit down to the table than when you shove back. I told Mis’ Puppy, private, what his father had said to me about his not hearing anything spoke cross; and she nodded, like it was something she’d got all thought out, with tags on. “I was a-wondering the other day,” she says, dreamy, “what I’d of been like if nobody had ever yipped out at me. I s’pose none of us knows.” “Likewise,” says I, “what we’d be like if we’d never yipped out to no one else.” “That’s so,” she says, “ain’t it? The two fits together like a covered bake-dish.” “Ain’t you ’fraid he’ll shoot the oven door down if you don’t let him out pitty quick?” says Donnie, trying to see how near he could get his ear to the crack to hear that “Hurrah.” Four days the little boy done that, stayed with me as contented as a kitten while his father went agenting; and then the fifth day he had to take him with him, because there come on what I’d been getting the cakes for--the quarterly meeting of the Go-lightly club.