"Yaya's so sirsty," she said in a very sad voice. "Yaya would yike a 'ponge cake!"
"Very well, darling; but don't you want to dig any more?"
"No," she said. "Yaya doesn't yike digging."
Now was that fair?—digging, indeed, when it was the poor aunt who had been digging all the time. When I told Diana of this she shook her head and said,— "Betty, it frightens me. Do you think Sara will grow up that sort of woman?"
"What sort of woman?"
"Like Polly in Charles Dudley Warner's 'My Summer in a Garden.' You remember when the husband says, 'Polly, do you know who planted that squash, or those squashes?'"
"'James, I suppose.'
"'Well, yes, perhaps James did plant them, to a certain extent. But who hoed them?'
"'We did.'"
"Well, it seems to me," I said, "that she was rather a delightful person."