Then all was confusion behind the gooseberries and the horsey d'upped and whoaed, and whoaed and d'upped, till I all but d'upped. I did move, and the noise stopped.
How long I slept there I do not know, but I heard again those voices behind the vines, though more subdued now, mere tender undertones like lovers in a garden seat. Lovers I supposed them, and, keeping still, I listened:
"But I'm not your little boy," said one, "because you haven't any."
"Oh yes, you are," replied the other, confidently. "You're my little boy because I love you."
"But why don't you ask God to send you a little boy all your own, just four years old like me, so we could play together? Why don't you?"
"Because," the reply was, "you're all the little boy I need."
"But if you did ask God and the angel brought you a little boy, then his name would be Billie."
"Oh, would it?"
"Yes, his name would be Billie, because now Billie is the next name to Robin."
"What do you mean by the next name to Robin?"