“Tommy,” said she softly, when little Sarah slept, “can you tell me what w-a-t-e-r spells?”
“No,” said the stolid Tommy.
“Is it dark in there, Tommy?” asked she, half relenting, and yet half wishing to excite his fears enough to conquer his obduracy.
“I don't know,” answered Tommy, quite willing to converse, “I've got my eyes shut.”
“Very well,” said Helen, and went on with her low lullaby, which Tommy stoutly, but ineffectually, attempted to join. The wind was beginning to rise and clatter at the casements, and sing its own tune round the gable-corner; the dark had quite fallen, and the room was gloomy and vivid by turns with the fitful flashes of the firelight.
“Nelly,” said Tommy, wheedlingly, and shaking the lock of the closet, “I wish you'd give me some. I'm real sirsty.”
“Some what?” asked Helen, very willing to compromise.
“Some w-a-t-e-r. I'm so sirsty.”
“Pronounce it, Tommy, and you shall come out and have some.”
“I don't know how to,” was the atrocious answer.