Queenie was delighted, and eagerly waited by the little gate till the Squire should appear. He was a little time in coming, as several of the poor people had something they wished to say to him.
But he came at length, the child close at his side, at whom Sir Walter cast one curious glance, and then drew the Squire a little on one side in order to talk at his ease.
The two children were thus left confronting each other. Queenie of course spoke first.
“What is your name, little boy?” she asked, graciously.
“They call me Bertie here,” he answered, gently, lifting his cap when the little strange lady spoke to him in a way that raised him many steps higher in Queenie’s opinion.
“Well, they call me Queenie,” responded she, laughing, “though it isn’t my name, so we’re something like one another, you see. How old are you?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know. Mrs. Pritchard and the tailor said I must be about seven or eight.”
“I thought so!” cried Queenie, quickly; “I always guess people’s ages nearly right. I shall be ten pretty soon. We live in the nearest house to you—next door, we should say in London; but people don’t talk like that here.”
Bertie looked up with a little start.