The child retreated a step, and then, gaining courage with the distance, said in deliciously imperfect speech,—
“Dow 'way then! why don't you dow away?”
But Mrs. Tretherick was eying the shawl. Suddenly she whipped it off the child's shoulders, and said angrily,—
“How dared you take my things, you bad child?”
“Is it yours? Then you are my mamma; ain't you? You are mamma!” she continued gleefully; and, before Mrs. Tretherick could avoid her, she had dropped her doll, and, catching the woman's skirts with both hands, was dancing up and down before her.
“What's your name, child?” said Mrs. Tretherick coldly, removing the small and not very white hands from her garments.
“Tarry.”
“Tarry?”
“Yeth. Tarry. Tarowline.”
“Caroline?”