“Baby Blake?” said I, thinking that a rather strange appellation for one whose well-developed proportions betokened nothing of infancy,—“Baby Blake?”
“To be sure; your cousin Baby.”
“Indeed!” said I, springing forward. “Let me embrace my relative.” Accepting my proffered salutation with the most exemplary coolness, she said:—
“Get a chair, now, and let’s have a talk together.”
“Why the devil do they call you Baby?” said I, still puzzled by this palpable misnomer.
“Because I am the youngest, and I was always the baby,” replied she, adjusting her ringlets with a most rural coquetry. “Now tell me something. Why do you live shut up here like a madman, and not come near us at Gurt-na-Morra?”
“Oh, that’s a long story, Baby. But, since we are asking questions, how did you get in here?”
“Just through the window, my dear; and I’ve torn my habit, as you see.”
So saying, she exhibited a rent of about two feet long, thrusting through it a very pretty foot and ankle at the same time.
“As my inhospitable customs have cost you a habit, you must let me make you a present of one.”