“There! there!” said the old lady, softly, and tapping the basket. Then she looked aside at the girl and whispered:
“Don’t you tell that conductor. They told me that I couldn’t take her with me unless I crated her and put her in the baggage car. But I’ll show ’em!”
“What is it?” breathed Dorothy. “Oh! I won’t tell.”
“There! your auntie can have her fresh egg in a minute or two now. I know Ophelia.”
“Ophelia?” gasped Dorothy.
“Yes. That’s her name. I gave it to her when she was a little bit of a chicken.”
“A hen!” exclaimed the amazed Dorothy.
“Yes. She’s a regular pet—and not much more than a year old. She was the only one left of a brood that my old Blackie brought off last May was a year ago,” said Mrs. Petterby.
“I couldn’t afford to have old Blackie nussin’ just one chicken,” she pursued, calmly. “So I brought Ophelia up by hand. She was just as cunning as she could be.
“She sat on my shoulder when I ate breakfast, and she’d eat her share of johnny-cake and sausages, too—yes, Ma’am! Then she’d take a nap sometimes, in my lap, when I sot down in my rocker by the kitchen window.