She took it and sat down with it on her lap and began to wind up the spools of cotton, roll up the rounds of tape, and so on.
While she was still intent on this little labor of love her friend re-entered the room, and seeing how she was engaged, said:
“Why, you little Busy Bee, what are you doing now?”
“Settling up your workbasket, ma’am, for it wanted it badly. And now I have finished it. But my name is not Busy Bee; it is Owlet,” solemnly replied the child, as she replaced the basket on the table.
“I know—you told me so; Owlet and also Catherine. Now which would you rather I should call you?”
“Owlet.”
“Well, then, Miss Owlet——”
“No,” interrupted the elf. “Not ‘Miss.’ Whoever heard of ‘Miss’ Owlet? Plain Owlet. Tom used to call me Miss Catherine; but that was something else. Tom was the little colored gentleman who waited on us when we lived in the city, in the lovely rooms with Lady.”
“All right, then, Miss Catherine——”
“No—Owlet.”