“That’s bad, mum.”
“No, not bad,” said the lady, sorrowfully. “It is just right that it should be so.”
“But it must be lonesome like, unless there were kicks and things.” Puppet was still thinking of her uncle.
The lady wondered what the child could mean, and not knowing, said,—
“What’s your name? How could I have forgotten to ask your name?”
“Puppet.”
“That’s a funny name. And where do you live?”
“Two or three miles away from here.”
“Have you walked here to-day?”
“Yes, mum.”