“Yeth. Tarowline Tretherick.”
“Whose child ARE you?” demanded Mrs. Tretherick still more coldly, to keep down a rising fear.
“Why, yours,” said the little creature with a laugh. “I'm your little durl. You're my mamma, my new mamma. Don't you know my ole mamma's dorn away, never to turn back any more? I don't live wid my ol' mamma now. I live wid you and papa.”
“How long have you been here?” asked Mrs. Tretherick snappishly.
“I fink it's free days,” said Carry reflectively.
“You think! Don't you know?” sneered Mrs. Tretherick. “Then, where did you come from?”
Carry's lip began to work under this sharp cross-examination. With a great effort and a small gulp, she got the better of it, and answered,—
“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.