“And now, I am—tell Mr. Barlow who I am, please,” pleaded the small maiden.
“Well, this is Miss Inna Weston, the daughter of a certain Mercy Willett, niece of Jonathan Willett, Doctor, who lived here years ago, before my time. Now, old man, come to tea.” With this, the boy slapped the other on the arm with pleasant familiarity, and went back to his tea-making.
Mr. Barlow led Inna to her seat, and saw her comfortable there, taking his own chair beside her, while Oscar sat with his back to the fire—like a cat on a frosty night, Mr. Barlow told him. Inna wondered where her uncle was, but asked no questions as yet—only munched away at her toast in her dainty way, and sipped her tea, [p32] trying hard to feel that she was at home. As for Oscar, he made such sloppy work with the urn, that Mr. Barlow had to say presently—
“Don’t make a sea of the table, boy. You see what incapable creatures we are, Miss Inna. I never could make tea, and your own eyes tell you what Oscar can do.”
“I suppose Uncle Jonathan makes tea when he is here,” was Inna’s reply.
At which the two gentlemen looked comically at each other.
“Well, I can’t say I ever saw the doctor come down from the clouds enough for that,” observed Mr. Barlow dryly; “but I hope his little great-niece—am I right in the pedigree, Oscar?—will set us to rights, and bring in the age of civilisation for us.”
Inna could but laugh a tinkling laugh at this, and asked timidly, “Do you live here, Mr. Barlow?”
“No, dear; but I’m here morning, noon, and night. My head-quarters are at Mrs. Tussell’s, whose name ought to be, now, guess what?”
People must suppose she had an aptitude for [p33] guessing, Inna thought, and asked with rosy cheeks was it “Fussy”?