“Thither Luthy hath dawn up-thtairs, I weckon,”—that was the way she said it; but words so distorted, charm, as they may, when they fall, like crumpled rose-leaves, from the fair portals of a child’s mouth, can please the eye of a phonetic reformer only. And so with the reader’s consent,—in fact, as a compliment to her,—I shall leave, in the main, such transformations to her fancy.
Besides, how utterly unintelligible would be a dialogue, so printed, to the very person for whose benefit, chiefly, this work has been undertaken. In his illumined day, you know, infants will have ceased to lisp.
The stranger had risen from his seat with rather a startled look, but upon this reassuring suggestion of his little friend, resumed it.
“You love your sister Lucy ever so much, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Mr. Whacker does, too.”
This remark produced a profound sensation upon two, certainly, of the eavesdroppers. Lucy, who was diffidence itself, blushed to the roots of her hair; while an uncomfortable consciousness of looking foolish took possession of me. Alice, holding her sides, fell exhausted upon a sofa.
“Mr. who?” asked he, with a sudden look of interest which startled us all.
“Mr. Whacker; don’t you know Mr. Whacker?”
“Maybe so; what kind of a man is he?”
“Oh, he is a nice man, and he is so funny,—he makes me nearly dead with laughing.”