The first impulse of our small woman was to fly into a passion and demand to know whether the questioner was possessed of common sense. But the heavenly compassion shown on the little black face utterly disarmed and subdued Owlet, so that after gazing for a little while she only inquired: “What made you think I was sick?” “I doane know, but I sought oo was, an’ I so sowwy fo’ oo.” And with her little black hand she stroked Owlet’s cheek. “Oh, you darling thing! You are prettier than the flowers and sweeter than the birdies!” said Owlet. “Dese aine birdies; dey is chickies,” said the little negro. “You are sweeter and prettier than the chickies, then. You darling thing! What is your name?” “Docky,” replied the black child. “Ducky? Oh, Ducky, I love you! Ducky, darling! Ducky, darling!” exclaimed Owlet, suddenly throwing her arms around the black child and kissing her. “You are a Ducky darling. You shall be my little playmate. Come to the house with me now, and see my dear lady. I want to show you to her, and I want to show her to you, as well. Come,” continued Owlet, clasping the hand of the black child and drawing her along. Dorcas, commonly called Dorky, followed obediently, as she would have followed anybody anywhere on so kind an invitation. Owlet drew her on out of the garden, into the house, into the oak-paneled parlor, and into the presence of Miss Fronde, who had just finished writing her letters and was putting them into the mail bag. Roma raised her eyes as the children entered the room hand in hand, and for a moment she thought what a pretty picture they made, standing thus before her; but only for a moment, as Owlet exclaimed: “Look! This is Ducky Darling. And, oh! isn’t she sweet?” “Why, it is little Dorcas!” exclaimed Roma. “Where did you find her, Catherine?” “By the chicken coop, in the garden,” replied Owlet. “And, oh! ain’t she lovely?” “What were you doing in the garden, Dorcas?” the lady inquired. “Chickies,” briefly answered the little black child. “Where is your mammy, Dorcas?” “Doane know.” “Who is Ducky Darling, anyhow? Who is the dear thing?” Owlet inquired, with the deepest interest. “She is Hera Hutter’s child,” Roma replied. “And who is Hera Hutter?” persisted Owlet. “She is our poultry woman.” “And where does she live?” “In a little house near the poultry yard,” said Roma, as she rang a little hand bell that stood on the table by her side. Puck answered the bell. “Go and find Hera, and ask her to come here,” said the lady. The boy went out. “Catherine, you said that you found Dorcas in the garden, by the chicken coop? Surely you must be mistaken, dear. The chicken coop had no place in the garden,” said Roma.