'Are you sure they don't call you Fatty?' inquired Bobby.
'No; only rude people. Nice people call me Miss Wilkins. I don't like boys. I was four last week, so I'm quite a big girl now. Will the doggie hurt me? I think I will have some of that cake!'
'Hadn't you better begin with bread-and-butter?' said Lilian. 'No, dear, the doggie won't hurt you; it's only his play. Come here, Rollo! I'm afraid I haven't a spare cup; but perhaps you won't mind having some milk in a saucer. Are you staying about here?'
'Yes, at the farmhouse. I help Mary to milk the cows. Mary sings to them. I can sing, too. Would you like to hear me sing now?'
'If it won't trouble you too much,' began Lilian.
'No. I like it!' and Miss Wilkins crossed her short legs, turned up the brown eyes, and broke forth into such a very extraordinary burst of melody that the children were nearly in fits. It had neither time nor tune, but the notes quavered about on the scale like a distant representation of the bagpipes. From the words they supposed it must be meant for a hymn, and it wound on through six or seven verses, till Bobby grew quite hysterical.
'Thank you,' said Lilian, stifling her mirth, when the youthful Madame Patti had at length drawn to a close. 'Where did you learn that?'
'I learn it on Sundays, out of a book. Shall I sing it for you over again?' evidently thirsting for an encore.
'Hadn't you better have some tea first?' suggested Peggy hastily. 'See, I've put strawberry jam on your bread-and-butter.'
The attractions of preserve seemed to outweigh the charms of music, for Miss Wilkins ate stolidly for five minutes without volunteering any further remarks.