“I tiss ’oo once,” replied King Roy solemnly, and allowing his little rose-bud mouth to meet hers.
“Oh, but ain’t he a real duck?” said the girl. “We ’ad a little ’un somethink like him wid us once. Yes, he wor werry like him.”
“Ain’t he with you now?” asked Faith.
“No, no; you mustn’t speak o’ it to mother, but he died; he tuk the ’fecti’n, and he died.”
“Wor it fever?” asked Faith.
“Yes, perhaps that wor the name. There’s a many kinds o’ ’fecti’n, and folks dies from they h’all. I don’t see the use o’ naming ’em. They’re h’all certain sure to kill yer.” Here the ragged girl seated herself on the grass quite close to Faith. “You’ll never guess where I’m a going this afternoon,” she said.
“No; how could I guess?” replied Faith.
“Well, now, you’re werry neat dressed, and folks like you have a kinder right to be there. But for h’all that, though I’m desperate ragged, I’m goin’. You’re sure you can’t guess, can you?”
“No, I can’t guess,” answered Faith. “I ain’t going nowhere particular myself, and I never wor good at guessing.”
“Well, now, ain’t it queer?—I thought h’all the ’spectable folks went. Why, I’m going to Sunday-school—’tis to Ragged Sunday-school, to be sure; but I like it. I ha’ gone twice now, and I like it wonderful well.”