“Not now. But Laura what? What is your other name?”
“My name is Laura Poythress.”
“Laura Poythress!”
He bowed his broad shoulders till his face was almost on a level with hers, and scanning her features intently: “Laura Poythress, Laura Poythress,” repeated he, to himself; “and Lucy, too! and Whacker!”
We looked at each other with wide eyes.
Again the stranger rose; this time with nervous abruptness, and took a few rapid turns up and down the pavement, close to little Laura; then walking quickly up to her, and stooping down, he asked her, in an eager whisper, “Have you any mother?”
“Yeth,” replied she, with a simple little laugh, “of courth; evvybody’th dot a muvver!”
He seemed to avert his face when she laid down this generalization; nor could we, from our position, see his expression. “Yes,” said he; and was silent for a while. “What is your mother’s name?”
“My mother’s name is Mumma.”
“But what is her real sure-enough name?”