"Rite,—ah, that is it! Rite what?"
"Rite!" said the child, authoritatively, bringing down her foot and shaking back her hair.
"And how old is Rite?"
"One, two, four, twenty. Maman is twenty;—Rite is twenty, too."
"When was Rite four?"
"A great while ago. She went to heaven in the afternoon," was added, confidentially, after a moment's inspection to see if he were worthy.
"Ah! And what was there there?"
"Pitchtures, and music, and peoples, and a great house."
"And where is Rite going now?"
"Going away in a ship."