The little girl assented. I carefully instructed her in what she was to say, and dispatched her. She placed herself in front of Harold—a wide-eyed mite of four, that scarcely reached above his knee—and clasping her chubby hands behind her, gazed at him fearlessly and unwinkingly.
“Aurora, you mustn’t stand staring like that,” said mother.
“Yes, I must,” she replied confidently.
“Well, and what’s your name?” said Harold laughingly.
“Aurora and Roy. I belong to Sybyller, and got to tell you somesing.”
“Have you? Let’s hear it.”
“Sybyller says you’s Mr Beecher; when you’re done tea, you’d like me if I would to ’scort you to farver and the boys, and ’duce you.”
Mother laughed. “That’s some of Sybylla’s nonsense. She considers Rory her especial property, and delights to make the child attempt long words. Perhaps you would care to take a stroll to where they are at work, by and by.”
Harold said he would go at once, and accepting Rory’s escort, and with a few directions from mother, they presently set out—she importantly trudging beneath a big white sun-bonnet, and he looking down at her in amusement. Presently he tossed her high above his head, and depositing her upon his shoulder, held one sturdy brown leg in his browner hand, while she held on by his hair.
“My first impressions are very much in his favour,” said mother, when they had got out of hearing. “But fancy Gertie the wife of that great man!”