“Well, darling, where do you feel sick?”
“Not sick anywhere, mamma.”
“Are you crying because you and Teddy have quarrelled?”
“No’m: we didn’t krorrel.”
“Then tell me, my little son, what is it?”
“Can’t walk, mamma,” sobbed the poor child, plunging headlong upon the floor, and crawling upon his hands and knees.
“Fie! that’s not nice. Get up, my son: you’ll soil your clothes.”
“Can’t get up, mamma.”
“I said he couldn’t get up: my Pollio’s very sick,” repeated Posy, hoping her mother would believe her now.