Hearing which, Mamma glances from Franz to Leslie, and spreading out her two bony palms in a sort of “bless-you-my-children” gesture, says theatrically:
“Ah-h, you were too young to remember each other; at least you were too young to remember Franzy. But he don’t forget you; do you, Franzy, my boy? You don’t forget Leschen—little Leschen?”
“Don’t I though?” mutters Franz under his breath, and then he moves forward with an unsteady lurch, saying aloud: “Eh? oh, Leschen: little Leschen. Why in course I—I remember.”
“Ah!” cries Mamma with enthusiasm, “many’s the time you’ve rocked her, when she wasn’t two years old.”
“Franzy was allers good ’bout sech things,” chimes in Papa.
“Umph!” grunts Franz, turning to Papa, “where’s she been?”
“My boy,” replies Papa impressively, “Leschen’s been living like a lady ever since she was adopted away from us. Of course you can’t remember each other much, but ye ort to be civil to yer sister.”
“That’s a fact,” assents Franz, coming quite close to Leslie. “Say, Leschen, don’t ye be afraid o’ me; I kin see that ye don’t like my looks much. Say, can’t ye remember me at all?”
A full moment Leslie scans him from head to foot, with a look of proud disdain. Then turning towards Mamma, she says bitterly:
“I am more fortunate than I hoped to be.”