Faith came to the door.
"Who are you, little fellow?" said she, eying the dusty white head.
"Who be you?" said the boy.
"The centre of your solar system at present," said Mr. Linden. "Is that the way satellites generally ask questions?"
"What a queer man!" said the boy looking at Mr. Linden.
"What a queer boy—" said that gentleman gravely.
"What do you want?" said Faith, biting her lips and laughing at both of them.
The boy gazed at her, but he also gazed at the scraper!—and the attraction of that was irresistible. Down went his white head, and over went his dusty feet, and then Charles twelfth was himself again.
"My ma' kep' your 'ma to supper," he said. "And she says you may come too, if you want ter—and bring him. We've got lots o' pies." And stimulated by this recollection, the boy turned without delay and began his revolutions homeward. Faith ran down the two or three porch steps and laid hold of the little invader.
"Here! You Charles twelfth!—who are you, and where does your ma' live?"