Weezy’s remark had called up a painful memory, and Donald’s lip began to quiver.
“Don’t wike p’itty ’itty bed. All dark. Mamma all gone.”
“We won’t talk about it, darling,” said Mrs. Rowe, kissing the tear-stained face. “Here you are in sister’s arms, and sister shall sing to you. What do you want to hear her sing?”
“Sing Robbitty-bobbitty,” replied Donald, swallowing a sob. And Weezy piped up in a clear, sweet treble:—
“Robinty-bobbinty bent his bow
To shoot a pitcher and killed a crow.”
CHAPTER III
SANTA LUZIA
“Here comes Miss Hobbs, mamma, rolling along with the clothes-basket.”
Wednesday morning had arrived, and Kirke was upon the side porch helping his mother strap her grip-sack. Miss Hobbs was bringing home some starched clothes too fine to be laundered by Sing High, the “wash-man;” and beside her walked her roly-poly niece and nephew, Essie and Harry.
“I daren’t leave them at ’ome by their little selves, Mrs. Rowe,” she wheezed in mounting the steps. “Hessie is that contriving of mischief, an’ such an obstinate child.”