Tinker's face was one bright, seraphic smile as he took off his hat, and, with an admirable bow, said, "May I take you to your people?"
The bullet-headed boy rose to his feet and staggered away.
"Uncle's still in that big house," said the little girl, striving bravely to check her sobs.
"That's a nuisance," said Tinker thoughtfully; "for we can't get at him."
"I think he's forgotten all about me. He often does," said the little girl, without any resentment; and she dusted the gravel off her frock.
"I might bolt in and remind him."
"They won't let us in—only grown-ups," said the little girl. "Uncle tried to get them to let me in; but they wouldn't."
"They're used to letting me in," said Tinker—"and hauling me out again," he added. "It brightens them up. You tell me what he's like."
Being a girl, the child was able to describe her uncle accurately: but when she had done, Tinker shook his head:
"He must be just like a dozen other Englishmen in there," he said. "And they wouldn't give me time to ask each one if he were your uncle."