"Well," said Mrs. Bunker, "what can that be, coming at this time of day? It can never be the doctor coming home without sending orders! Don't you be running out, Miss Lucy; there'll be a draught of cold right in."
Lucy stood still; very anxious, and wondering whether she should see anything alive, or one of her visitors from various countries.
"There is a letter from Mr. Seaman," said a brisk young voice, that would have been very pleasant if it had not gone a little through the nose; and past Mrs. Bunker there walked into the full light a little boy, a year or two older than Lucy, holding out one hand as he saw her and taking off his hat with the other. "Good morning," he said, quite at his ease; "is this where you live?"
"Good morning," returned Lucy, though it was not morning at all; "where do you come from?"
"Well, I'm from Paris last; but when I'm at home, I'm at Boston. I am Leonidas Saunders, of the great American Republic."
"Oh, then you are not real, after all?"
"Real! I should hope I was a genuine article."
"Well, I was in hopes that you were real, only you say you come from a strange country, like the rest of them, and yet you look just like an English boy."
"Of course I do! my great grandfather came from England," said Leonidas; "we all speak English as well, or better, than you do in the old country."
"I can't understand it!" said Lucy; "did you come like other people, by the train, not like the children in my dreams?"