“Sure, it’s a kind of pickle-sauce, darlin’.”
“Haven’t we got some of it in the cupboard?”
“Slathers, my colleen.”
“Chili is a country, my daughter,” corrected mamma, looking up from the letter she was writing so hurriedly that her pen went scratch, scratch.
“Is it red, mamma?”
“Hush, little one. Don’t be botherin’ the mistress the now. Here’s Rudanthy’s best clothes. Put ’em on, and have her ready for the start.”
“Is Rudanthy going a journey, too, Bridget?”
“‘Over the seas and far away’—or over the land; what differ?”
When the doll had been arrayed in its finery mamma had finished her writing, and, rising from her desk, called the child to her. Then she took her on her lap and said, very earnestly:
“Josephine, you are eight years old.”