That morning in the breakfast-room, when I had kissed my daughter Alida, aged eighteen, and my daughter Dulcima, aged nineteen, the younger said: "Papa, do you know that our pig has been stolen?"
"Alida," I replied, "I myself disposed of him"—which was the dreadful truth.
"You sold him?" asked Dulcima in surprise.
"N—not exactly. These grape-fruit are too sour!"
"You gave him away?" inquired Alida.
"Yes—after a fashion. Is this the same coffee we have been using? It has a peculiar——"
"Who did you give him to?" persisted my younger child.
"A—man."
"What man?"
"Nobody you know, child."