Patient Prudy crept into bed, but left the lamp burning.
"Suppose we make up some poetry?" said she.
"Why, you don't know how to make up poetry—do you?" said Dotty, leaning on her elbow, and looking with dreamy eyes at the engraving of Christus Consolator at the foot of the bed. "I love poetry when they read it in concert at school. Don't you know,—
'Tremendous torrents! For an instant hush!'
Isn't that splendid?"
"Very splendid, indeed," replied Prudy, pinching herself to keep awake.
"I think Torrence is such a nice name," pursued Dotty; "don't you tell anybody but when I'm married and have some boys, I'm going to name some of them Torrence."
"Not more than one, Dotty!"
"O, no, I couldn't; could I? There mustn't but one of them have the same name; I forgot. 'Tremendous Torrence!' I shall say; and then he'll come in and ask, 'What do you want, mother?'"
Prudy suddenly hid her face under the sheet. The absurdity of little Dotty's ideas had driven the sleep out of her eyes.