“An’ now who de name ob de Lor’ is dis chile?” demanded Serious, for the first time noticing Owlet.
“A little girl whom I’m going to take care of for a while,” answered Roma.
“Whose chile is she, den, shove off on to yo’ mist’ess?”
“She is an orphan.”
“Oh, Lor’! I hope yo’ ain’t gwine to ’dop’ her, young mist’ess.”
“Unless her grandmother, who is a wealthy English woman, should claim her, I certainly shall.”
“Oh, Lor’ young mist’ess! Yo’ doane know wot yo’s a-doin’ ob! Raisin’ udder people’s chillun! Oh, Lor’! She gwine be a heap o’ trouble, ’deed she is. Heap o’ trouble. She gwine to hab de measles, an’ de scarlet feber, an’ de whoopin’ cough, an’—an’—an’—all dem dere. Oh, young mist’ess, sen’ her to de ’sylum.”
“I must put her to bed. Is there a fire in my bedroom?”
“Sartin, ma’am. But yo’ gwine to put dat chile inter yo’ own bedroom?”
“Yes, and into my bed. She has slept with me ever since her poor mother died. Now take a candle and light me upstairs,” said Roma, as she tenderly lifted the child from the lounge and carried her out.