“Eat them?”
“Yes—they're lovely. Jim and I roast them in the stockman's kitchen when auntie has gone to bed.”
“And who is Jim?”
“Jim Incubus; I'm Mary Incubus.”
“Mary what?”
“Incubus, sir.”
Gerrard dismounted, and tying his reins to a stirrup, let his horse graze. Then taking his pipe out of his pocket, he filled and lit it, and motioned to the child to sit down beside him upon a fallen honeysuckle tree.
“What is your auntie's name, my dear?” and he took the child's hand in his.
“Mrs Elizabeth Westonley.”
“Ah! I thought so. Now, did you ever hear her talk of an Uncle Tom?”