"No: she's dead," said Georgia, looking down with filling eyes.
"Ah! excuse me. I didn't know," said the boy, hastily. "And your father?"
"Dead, too."
"Possible! With whom do you live?"
"Miss Jerusha."
"Miss Jerusha—who?"
"Skamp. She lives up in that cottage."
"Skamp! There's a pretty name to talk about! Old-lady, is she?"
"Yes; old and ugly."
"Ah! I guess I sha'n't mind an introduction, then. And what brings you down here, Miss Darrell? It's my time to ask questions now."