“Yes, that’s ma,—on the bed. She’s sick; she’s always sick. Tum in, but don’t make a noise, ’cause I’se tryin’ to rock baby brother to seep, like a good ’ittle dirl.”
“An’ I’s dood, too,” chirped the dumpling in the high chair. “I’ve climbed up here to det out of the way, an’ not wake mamma an’ make her head ache, an’ papa’s goin’ to bring me some tandy, he is, when he tums from the meetin’.”
There was no mistaking that blue-eyed, fair-haired child for other than Theodore Morton’s, and Beatrice stooped down and kissed her round, rosy cheek, and asked:
“What is your name, little one?”
“Mamie,—Mamie Morton; but dey calls me Bunchie, ’cause I’s so fat, an’ I’s mamma’s darlin’, and was tree ’ears old next week,” was the reply; and then Bee turned to the elf, and laying her hand on the jet-black hair, said:
“And your name is what?”
“Trixey everybody calls me but papa, who sometimes says Bee; but that ain’t my very name. It’s ever so long, with many B’s in it,” was the reply, and Bee’s heart gave a great bound, as she said:
“Is it Beatrice?”
“Yes, an’ more too, Beatrice sometin’.”
“Beatrice Belknap, perhaps,” guessed the lady, and the child replied: