And the three turned toward the house—Miss Frond leading the weeping black infant, who seemed to have been converted into an inexhaustible fountain of tears.
“We will take the child with us. The drive may distract her grief,” said Roma as they walked on.
On the lawn before the house they found Puck, who had just returned from the post office with a packet of letters and papers in his hand.
“Take them into the parlor, and leave them on the table. I have no time to look at them now,” said Miss Fronde.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the negro. Then, noticing Ducky Darling: “W’y, wot de name ob sense is de matter ’long o’ yo’, Dorky?” he inquired of the wailing little one.
“W’ite man!—Owly!—ta’yidge!” wailed the child.
“Wot? Wot she mean, young mist’ess?” politely questioned the father.
“Owlet has been carried off in a carriage by some man.”
“Oh, Lor’!”
“There is no time to talk about it now.”