According to this arrangement, Pax found himself, not many days after, revelling in the enjoyment of what he styled “tooral-ooral” felicity—among cows and hay, sunshine and milk, buttercups and cream, green meadows and blue skies,—free as a butterfly from telegraphic messagery and other postal cares. He was allowed to ramble about at will, and, as little Bones was supposed to be slightly invalided by her late semi-suffocation, she was frequently allowed by her indulgent mistress to accompany him.
Seated on a stile one day, Pax drew Tottie out as to her early life, and afterwards gave an account of his own in exchange.
“How strange,” said Tottie, “that you and I should both have had bybies to nuss w’en we was young, ain’t it?”
“It is, Tot—very remarkable. And we’ve had a sad fate, both of us, in havin’ bin wrenched from our babbies. But the wrench couldn’t have bin so bad in your case as in mine, of course, for your babby was nobody to you, whereas mine was a full cousin, an’ such a dear one too. Oh, Tot, you’ve no notion what splendid games we used to have, an’ such c’lections of things I used to make for ’er! Of course she was too young to understand it, you know, for she could neither walk nor speak, and I don’t think could understand, though she crowed sometimes as if she did. My! how she crowed!—But what’s the matter, Tot?”
Tottie was pouting.
“I don’t like your bybie at all—not one bit,” she said emphatically.
“Not like my babby!” exclaimed Pax.
“No, I don’t, ’cause it isn’t ’alf so good as mine.”
“Well,” returned Pax, with a smile, “I was took from mine. I didn’t forsake it like you.”
“I didn’t forsake it,” cried Tottie, with flashing eyes, and shaking her thick curls indignantly—which latter, by the way, since her coming under the stern influence of Miss Stivergill, had been disentangled, and hung about her like a golden glory.—“I left it to go to service, and mother takes care of it till I return home. I won’t speak to you any more. I hate your bybie, and I adore mine!”