“No, I am not a Boniface at all, but I am new in this part of the country. I used to live in England.”
“What is your name?”
“Flutters.”
Miss Pauline seemed very much amused at this, saying it over to herself two or three times. “Did your father use to call you Flutters?” she asked presently, looking at him searchingly.
“No,” he answered, the color rushing into his brown face, for no one had asked him that direct question before.
“What did he call you?”
“He called me—he called me—but that is one of the things I do not tell to anybody.”
“But, Flutters, child, you will tell me, just me,” and Pauline looked at him with a look as pathetic as though she were pleading for her life.
“But I can't, Miss Pauline, really I can't;” whereupon Miss Pauline buried her face in her two pretty hands, and began to cry like a child.