"No, it's not mine; it's one I borrowed, so I washed it," she explained, and then she pulled the tiny child upon her lap, as she sat on the floor.
"What's your name, I wonder?"
"Bertillia," breathed the mite, pronouncing all the syllables quite distinctly, and looking solemnly up at Joey as she spoke.
"But we call her Tiddles," said a jolly-looking, round-faced person on Joey's right. "At least the big ones did first, and we caught it off them. And she's like a Tiddles, isn't she—just a sort of little kitten thing you can pick up."
"You squeeze me when you pick me up, Ros-ie," Tiddles stated.
"How old is she?" Joey asked, cuddling Tiddles close, as she cuddled Bingo, when he allowed it—which wasn't often.
"Oh, she's six—but isn't she small—people think she's only two or three," Rosie answered. "She's Belgian, you know, and Miss Conyngham has taken her 'cause she's got nobody. Her mother got killed, and the one who brought her to England died of tiredness, poor thing—she had to walk and walk and carry Tiddles. She found her, you know; and look what those pigly Germans had done to her. Show your arm, Tiddles, darling."
Tiddles, who had listened seriously and unwinkingly to her mournful story, related so very cheerfully by Rosie, gave a funny little nod, and pulled up the loose sleeve of her tiny blouse. On the small arm was a long, deep scar.