“Papa, Papa fetched me—from Miss Simmons—from Sacramento, last week.”
“Last week! You said three days just now,” returned Mrs. Tretherick with severe deliberation.
“I mean a monf,” said Carry, now utterly adrift in sheer helplessness and confusion.
“Do you know what you are talking about?” demanded Mrs. Tretherick shrilly, restraining an impulse to shake the little figure before her and precipitate the truth by specific gravity.
But the flaming red head here suddenly disappeared in the folds of Mrs. Tretherick's dress, as if it were trying to extinguish itself forever.
“There now—stop that sniffling,” said Mrs. Tretherick, extricating her dress from the moist embraces of the child and feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. “Wipe your face now, and run away, and don't bother. Stop,” she continued, as Carry moved away. “Where's your papa?”
“He's dorn away too. He's sick. He's been dorn”—she hesitated—“two, free, days.”
“Who takes care of you, child?” said Mrs. Tretherick, eying her curiously.
“John, the Chinaman. I tresses myselth. John tooks and makes the beds.”
“Well, now, run away and behave yourself, and don't bother me any more,” said Mrs. Tretherick, remembering the object of her visit. “Stop—where are you going?” she added as the child began to ascend the stairs, dragging the long doll after her by one helpless leg.