“What’s your name, kiddie? You’ll tell me, won’t you?” asked Billy, when she seemed to have taken the edge off her appetite. He bent down to her with a sympathetic expression which he possessed at times, and which—or something about him—won the hearts of most small children he had dealings with.
“Sandy,” she said through large mouthfuls.
“Sandy what?” inquired Louise.
“Sandy Mitchell. Gimme more cake?”
As she had had two large slices, it was thought best not to give her any more.
“Mercy, no!” said Winona, as Louise was cutting it, in spite of prudence. “Not another bit. We don’t want her to die on our hands. You’d better come over here by the spring, dear, and let me wash your hands.”
Sandy got up immediately, with the placid remark, “It might-a given me a pain, anyway,” and allowed her hands to be washed, and dried on a fresh paper napkin.
“Poor little cowed thing!” exclaimed Louise at this instant obedience. “Sandy, dear, won’t your people be worried about you?”
“Nope,” said Sandy.
“And where do you live?”