“Why, Georgie, who can the little thing be?”
Dulcibel knelt straight down on the grass, and asked the child’s name. No answer was vouchsafed. The black eyes glowered at Dulcie, and the black brows frowned more heavily.
“Georgie, she’s a darling,” cried the forgiving Dulcie. “Just see what lovely eyes! She’s as dark as a gypsy. And how nicely the little pet is dressed! She isn’t a poor child, Georgie. She must belong to a lady. But fancy leaving her here! Why, she might have fallen into the river. What a mercy we came back this way! Now, you little dear, do tell me; what is your name?”
“Whom do you belong to, my dear?” asked George, as Dulcibel’s most winning smile met only with another scowl from the rich dark eyes and brows.
“Don!” came at last solemnly.
“John?” hazarded George.
“Or—Gone,” suggested Dulcibel.
“Don!” was solemnly reiterated.
“She likes you better than me, Georgie, dear. She doesn’t frown at you half so fiercely,” said Dulcibel.
George seemed flattered, and he bent low over the small piece of composed and sedate humanity.