“When Doosa tomes, wate me up.”
“Yes, that I will.”
“Dood night, Met!”
“Good night, little angel!”
“Tiss me first, Met; tiss Lenny dood-night, Met!”
The girl stooped and kissed the child almost passionately, and murmured:
“Who could hurt him, the darling?”
But Lenny’s eyelids were weighed down with sleep, and he was almost gone again, when, once more he called:
“Met, I fordot to say my p’ayers. Hear me say my p’ayers, Met!”
And heavy with sleep as he was, he slipped off her lap, knelt down at her knee, and folded his little hands, and bowed his little head, and opened his baby-mouth, in “the simplest form of words that infant-lips can try:”