She beamed upon him with her sunny blue eyes, and answered:
“Sweet’art.”
There was more laughter from across the aisle. The young man reddened in spite of himself, but persisted:
“Yes, I know you are my sweetheart, but what is your other name? What does your mamma call you?”
“Nuffin, only des Sweet’art,” she replied, amiably, reaching up and patting his cheek with a warm, sticky little palm, with a lozenge glued to it by its own sweetness.
“That is her name for you when you are very good, I suppose, but when you are bad—when you cry and scold your doll, what name does she call you then?” he queried, and she replied, intelligently:
“‘Naughty yittle Sweet’art.’”
“I give it up,” he said, carelessly; and then she asked, in her innocent, confiding manner:
“Don’t oo want me to sing mamma’s yittle song all ’bout me myse’f?”
“Yes, please.”