“What is their last name?” asked the grandmother quickly.
“Alice and Ben Bolt,” said Elsa.
“Nonsense, child,” replied Mrs. Danforth: she had a discouraging way of saying “Nonsense!” that made Elsa feel like a very small and silly child; “those are names from an old nursery ballad.”
“I am sure their names are Alice and Ben, anyway, grandmother,” said Elsa, pushing back the silky hair which had dropped forward, and looking steadily at her grandmother out of great, wide-open eyes.
“Probably those are not their real names,” replied Mrs. Danforth. She seemed rather troubled about something, Elsa thought. And then the child tried to remember if she had done anything her grandmother did not like.
Later, just before Elsa’s bedtime, Mrs. Danforth asked again: “What is the last name of the children you call Alice and Ben?”
“Bolt, or Holt, or Colt may be; I can’t remember,” answered Elsa, looking up from the pages of the “Swiss Family Robinson” and hoping her grandmother would not notice that the mantel clock was striking eight.
“Where do they live?”
“O, a mile away,” said Elsa. “And they have hens and a garden, and they raise radishes for the city market.”
“Are you sure they are proper children for you to associate with?”