'I saw you lighting the fire,' she announced calmly, 'so I took Isabella, and I've comed to tea.'
'We're very glad to see you, I'm sure,' said Lilian. 'Is Isabella your dolly?'
'No; she's my child. I don't call her a dolly: it hurts her feelings, so please don't say it again!'
'I'm ever so sorry,' apologised Lilian, trying to repress Bobby's giggles. 'Whose little girl are you?'
'I'm Father's girl. Father's painting pictures up there in the wood. I paint pictures, too, sometimes, when Isabella don't want me,' confided the juvenile artist; and to judge from the smears of paint upon her pinafore, she had evidently been pursuing that art with more vigour than discretion.
'Won't you come and sit on my lap?' said Peggy coaxingly, for she loved small children.
The chubby infant looked the slight figure up and down, as if appraising the offered accommodation.
'She hasn't got a lap to sit upon,' she remarked scornfully, settling her stout legs on the grass.
'You haven't told us your name yet,' said Lilian, trying to draw out the interesting visitor.
'My name's Matilda Christabel Wilkins, but they call me Matty for short.'