“Courage,” she asked at last in what seemed an opportune moment, “were you not on a lighter that was run into by the St. Johns a few weeks ago?”
“Why, yes,” answered Courage, surprised; “and were you the lady and the gentleman?” (glancing toward Mr. Everett).
“Yes; we wanted to learn your name, but you and Sylvia here both answered at once, so we could not make it out.”
“But why did you want to know?”
“Because I thought I recognized the little blue coat you had on, and now that I have seen you again, I feel sure of it. I think it must have been given to you by Miss Julia.”
“Why, yes,” said Courage; “and did you know the little girl it used to belong to?”
“It belonged to my own little girl, Courage.”
“To your little girl? Oh, I would love to have seen her wear it, it's such a beautiful coat! Did she mind having it given away?”
“Courage,” said Miss Julia sadly, “little Belle died last winter, and so there was no longer any need for it.”
“Oh, dat's how it was,” said practical Sylvia, who had listened attentively to every word. “We've spec'lated of 'en an' over—ain't we, Miss Courage?—why a jes-as-good-as-new coat was eber gib away.”