By that time Mary and Fanny were at the sitting-room door, curious to see the stranger.
“How d’ye do? Do you children live here all alone? Guess I’ll come in,” said the waif, brushing past Preston, who did not choose to keep her out by main force, and entering the sitting-room where the breakfast-table was spread. “I live over t’other side of Bluff. My name’s Pancake.”
“Oh, I know who you are then,” said Fanny, not very cordially; for she had heard her father speak of a poor, half-starved, vagrant family of that name; harmless, he believed, but not very desirable neighbors.
“My name’s Pecy Pancake,” added the waif obligingly, and bent her snub nose to sniff the burnt trout.
“Peace, probably,” said Preston, aside.
“No, Pecielena. Hain’t you got no lasses cake? Oh, what cunning little sassers;” handling the salt glasses. “Where’s the cups to ’em? How came you children to come here alone?”
“We came because we chose,” said Mary, with crushing emphasis.
“We wished to come,” said Fanny, trying to be as dignified as Mary, though she felt her inferiority in this respect always.
In no wise disconcerted, Miss Pecielena Pancake started on a tour of observation about the room.