“And I’m not Bogy,” retorted D’Arcy.
“Yes, you are,” said Amabel. “Only you had very old clothes on in the wood.”
Lady Craikshaw had cruelly warned Lady Adelaide that Amabel sometimes told stories, and, thinking that the child was romancing, Lady Adelaide tried to change the subject. But D’Arcy cried, “Oh, do let her talk, mamma. I do so like her. She is such fun!”
“You oughtn’t to laugh at me,” said poor Amabel, as D’Arcy took her into the dining-room, “I gave you my paint-box.”
The boy’s stare of amazement awoke a doubt in Amabel’s mind of his identity with the Bogy of the woods. Between constantly peeping at him, and her anxiety to conduct herself conformably to her size in the etiquette of the dinner-table, she did not eat much. When dinner was over, and D’Arcy led her away to the rocking horse, he asked, “Do you still think I’m Bogy?”
“N—no,” said Amabel, “I think perhaps you’re not. But you’re very like him, though you talk differently. Do you make pictures?”
D’Arcy shook his head.
“Not even of leaves?” said Amabel.
When she was going away, D’Arcy asked, “Which do you like best, me or Bogy?”
Amabel pondered. “I like you very much. You made the rocking-horse go so fast; but I liked Bogy. He carried me all up the hill, and he picked up my moss. I wasn’t afraid of him. I gave him a kiss.”