Roma was surprised into a laugh at the hesitation, the regret and the solemnity expressed in Owlet’s words and looks.
“Here she comes now, poor little thing, playing on the musical box I gave her. That’s all she can do, and that’s only turning a little crank, you know,” added Owlet.
Ducky Darling waddled up to them, radiant with life and joy, her eyes shining like great stars from the night of her dark face. She was playing on her toy music box with the greatest delight, though the instrument, being out of repair ever since it had been in her possession, could furnish no particular tune, but mixed up rollicking “Yankee Doodle” with dirgelike “Araby’s Daughter” in the most eccentric manner. No less on that account was Ducky Darling delighted with her toy.
Roma sat down on the steps and took the little black child on her lap and began to talk to her, to draw her out.
But there was nothing in her to bring out but tenderness, love, devotion. She had no thoughts on any, even the simplest, subject.
The breakfast bell rang.
“Have you had your breakfast, Dorcas?” inquired Miss Fronde.
“’Es,” said the child, still turning her music box.
“What did you have for breakfast?”
“B’ead an’ m’ik an’ ’lasses.”