“She must have walked a mile and a half at that!” cried Tavia. “She is a smart little thing. And how did you know this was the school, dear?”
“I didn’t know—for sure,” admitted Celia. “But it didn’t look like houses, and it didn’t look jes’ like Findling asylums; so I ’spected it must be a school.”
“And she never saw a school before!” cried Tavia.
“Oh, yes, Miss Dorothy’s friend,” said Celia, demurely. “I went to school some when I was at the Findling. It was right on our block, and the matron let us big girls go,” and the way she said that “big” Tavia declared was “just killing!”
“So you big girls went to school?” queried Tavia. “How far did you get in school, dear?”
“Oh—dear—me—let’s see,” said the little one, thoughtfully. “Why, I got as far as ‘gozinto’—yes, that’s it; we studied ‘gozinto.’”
“‘Gozinto’?” repeated Tavia, looking at Dorothy in wonder. “What under the sun does the child mean? Whoever heard of ‘gozinto’?”
“Why, don’t they study ‘gozinto’ here in this school?” queried the round eyed Celia. “You know, it’s four gozinto eight twicet, an’ three gozinto twelve four times, an’ like that. It’s re’l int’restin’,” said the child, nodding.
“Oh! the funny little thing!” cried Tavia, bursting out laughing. “Did you ever hear the like of that, Dorothy?”
Dorothy was amused—as she had been before—by Celia’s funny sayings; but she was interested more now in stripping off the child’s poor garments—for she feared they were damp—and wrapping her in one of her own nightgowns.