Bobbert’s mother shook her head at them. “Now stop right there,” she said merrily, “if you’re going to suggest that he should come down and help! You don’t seem to see my plan at all, Frank. I want this thing to be perfect—I want it all to burst on him at once. How can we put it down in the evening when we’re all dressed? And there wouldn’t be time, anyway. Oh, Chris, you didn’t get him that, too? See that lovely dog collar! And the chain, too! Now Don will look respectable. Just step up stairs, won’t you, Frank, and keep Bob on that floor till supper? Minna will bring it to him up there. He’ll see the rails, you see, if he comes down into the hall. Helena, if you and Mr. Ferris eat any more of that broken candy, you’ll certainly be sick. No, I don’t mean ill—I mean plain sick.” “Do you mean to say you’re not going to let that child out into the dining-room? He’ll be so disgusted there’ll be no managing him.” Bobbert’s mother looked plaintive. “I wish to heaven, Frank,” she said, “that you had some children of your own! Perhaps you wouldn’t be so ridiculous then. How on earth is it going to hurt Bobbert, to-night of all nights, to stay in the nursery a few hours, just so that we may all toil for his own particular amusement? Tell him a story, or something. We’ll barely have time——” A burst of laughter interrupted her. Uncle Christopher had wound up the train and started it on what extent of rail was already laid, to his own great comfort and the disgust of Bobbert’s father and the fat one with the mustache, who shrieked at him to “stop it off,” and nervously waved their hands at the engine as it hove down upon the unfinished curve at the hearth rug, while Aunt Helena waved a red flag wildly, and Aunt Kate began to pass round a hat for a purse for “the brave girl who risked her life so gallantly to save the train.” [Illustration: “’_What are they doing in the hall?_’”] He left them with a chuckle, and began to mount the stairs two steps at a time, just saving himself from falling upon a huddled group at the top of the flight. “What _are_ they doing in the hall?” Bobbert demanded, abruptly, clutching the baby’s skirts with one hand and supporting himself in a peering attitude with the other. “What makes ’em scream that way? Why do they say, ‘Down brakes’? Is it a game? When Aunt Helena laughs and laughs that way, she us’ally cries afterward.” Uncle Frank towed them back into the nursery, and led the conversation story-ward, but Bobbert was not to be beguiled. “I’m tired of stories. I’d rather be down-stairs,” he yawned. “I know one thing—if I get another old carpenter’s set, I’ll sell it to-morrow for five cents. I hate ’em. All I want’s a boat, and I can’t have that. I don’t see why I can’t go out, if it _is_ snowing. I never can do a single thing I want, anyway.” “You are a little cross,” observed his uncle, surveying him critically, “but I don’t know that I blame you. Minna’s coming up soon.”