“You are not possessed of common sense. Do you suppose I would hurt these dear, darling little things?”
Surprised at the angry glance and voice of the white child, the little black one looked dazed and dumb for a moment, staring at the speaker; then she softly drew nearer to her, gently laid her hand upon her, and tenderly inquired:
“Is oo sick, ’ittle dirl?”
The first impulse of our small woman was to fly into a passion and demand to know whether the questioner was possessed of common sense. But the heavenly compassion shown on the little black face utterly disarmed and subdued Owlet, so that after gazing for a little while she only inquired:
“What made you think I was sick?”
“I doane know, but I sought oo was, an’ I so sowwy fo’ oo.” And with her little black hand she stroked Owlet’s cheek.
“Oh, you darling thing! You are prettier than the flowers and sweeter than the birdies!” said Owlet.
“Dese aine birdies; dey is chickies,” said the little negro.
“You are sweeter and prettier than the chickies, then. You darling thing! What is your name?”
“Docky,” replied the black child.