“Oh, why,—well,—it is any other place than the one you are talking about. Do you see?”
“Not so very well, but p’r’aps I will in a minute.”
“Hope springs eternal!” quoted Francie’s father.
“And then, as I was saying before being interrupted by the entire family, we will go and visit the Irish cousins, Jackeen and Broona, who belong to Aunt Salemina and Uncle Gerald, and the Sally-baby will be the centre of attraction because she is her Aunt Salemina’s godchild—”
“But we are all God’s children,” insisted Billy.
“Of course we are.”
“What’s the difference between a god-child and a God’s child?”
“The bottle of chloroform is in the medicine closet, my poor dear; shall I run and get it?” murmured Himself sotto voce.
“Every child is a child of God,” I began helplessly, “and when she is somebody’s godchild she—oh! lend me your handkerchief, Billy!”
“Is it the nose-bleed, mother?” he asked, bending over me solicitously.