“Ducky? Oh, Ducky, I love you! Ducky, darling! Ducky, darling!” exclaimed Owlet, suddenly throwing her arms around the black child and kissing her. “You are a Ducky darling. You shall be my little playmate. Come to the house with me now, and see my dear lady. I want to show you to her, and I want to show her to you, as well. Come,” continued Owlet, clasping the hand of the black child and drawing her along.
Dorcas, commonly called Dorky, followed obediently, as she would have followed anybody anywhere on so kind an invitation.
Owlet drew her on out of the garden, into the house, into the oak-paneled parlor, and into the presence of Miss Fronde, who had just finished writing her letters and was putting them into the mail bag.
Roma raised her eyes as the children entered the room hand in hand, and for a moment she thought what a pretty picture they made, standing thus before her; but only for a moment, as Owlet exclaimed:
“Look! This is Ducky Darling. And, oh! isn’t she sweet?”
“Why, it is little Dorcas!” exclaimed Roma. “Where did you find her, Catherine?”
“By the chicken coop, in the garden,” replied Owlet. “And, oh! ain’t she lovely?”
“What were you doing in the garden, Dorcas?” the lady inquired.
“Chickies,” briefly answered the little black child.
“Where is your mammy, Dorcas?”