Father is not very fond of his going, chiefly, I fancy, because he is so fond of Chris, and misses him.

Sometimes, in the middle of luncheon, he looks at Christopher's empty place, and says, "I wonder what those two are talking about over their pudding.

They are the queerest pair of friends." If we ask Chris what they have talked about, he wags his head, and looks very well pleased with himself, and says, "Lots of things.

I tell her things, and she tells me things." And that is all we can get out of him.
A few weeks afterwards, after I lost the hose-in-hose, Chris went to have luncheon with Aunt Catherine, and he came back rather later than usual.
"You must have been telling each other a good deal to-day, Chris," I said.
"I told her lots," said Chris, complacently.

"She didn't tell me nothing, hardly.