Plimpton bowed, and withdrew, not forgetting to deposit the brown paper parcel on a chair as he made his exit. Boy stood speechless, gazing round him in a state of utter bewilderment, and only holding to any sense of reality in things by keeping close to “Kiss-Letty,” and for the further relief of his mind glancing occasionally at the familiar “Dunny,” who presented the appearance of grazing luxuriously on an embroidered velvet table-cloth. Instinctively aware of the little fellow’s sudden shyness and touch of fear, Miss Letty did not allow him to remain long oppressed by his vague trouble. Kneeling down beside him, she took off his hat, pulled him out of his tiny overcoat, and kissed his little fat cheeks heartily.
“Now you are at home with Kiss-Letty,” she said, smiling straight into his big innocent blue eyes,—“aren’t you?”
Boy’s breath came and went quickly—his heart beat hard. He lifted one dumpy hand and dubiously inserted a forefinger through the loops of Miss Letty’s ever-convenient neck-chain. Then he smiled with responsive sweetness into the kind face so close to his own.
“’Ess,” he murmured very softly, “Boy wiz Kiss-Letty! But me feels awfoo’ funny!”
Miss Letitia laughed and kissed him again.
“Feels awfoo’ funny, do you?” she echoed. “Oh, but I feel just the same, Boy! It’s awfoo’ funny for me to have you here all to myself, don’t you think so?”
Boy’s smile broadened—he began to chuckle,—there was the glimmering perception of a joke somewhere in his brain. Just at that moment a comfortable-looking woman in a neat black dress, with a smart white apron, entered, and to her Miss Letty turned.
“This is the dear little fellow I told you about, Margaret,” she said, “the only son of the D’Arcy-Muirs. Master Boy he is called. Boy, will you say ‘how do you do’ to Margaret?”
Boy looked up. He was easier in his mind now and felt much more at home.
“How do, Margit?” he said cheerfully. “Me tum to stay wiz Kiss-Letty.”