Owlet was anxiously watching him. She had seen that the stranger had annoyed her friend, although she had not understood the drift of the conversation; and now, seeing him so bowed down in sorrow, she blamed the stranger, and sought to console Harcourt by the only formula that occurred to her mind: “Don’t you mind him,” she said, sniffing with exquisite childish scorn. “He’s not possessed of common sense!” Harcourt patted her head, in recognition of her sympathy, and then relapsed into troubled reverie. Owlet, perceiving that her companion was indisposed for conversation, settled herself in her seat, drew her roll of peppermint lozenges from her pocket, and occupied herself with them until the motion of the cars and the aroma of the peppermint sent her off into a sleep that lasted until they reached Wilmington. Then she was awakened by the train stopping and the passengers leaving their seats for the railway restaurant. “What shall I bring you for lunch, little girl?” inquired Harcourt, rousing himself. “Nothing. Miss Annie gave me this to give to you,” said the child, handing over the paper parcel of luncheon that had been intrusted to her. “It is our dinner,” she added. “Miss Annie has been like a sister to me, and a mother to you, has she not, little girl?” inquired Harcourt as he opened the parcel, spread a newspaper over his knees, and divided the sandwiches and apple pie between himself and his little companion. “Ah! she has that,” responded Owlet emphatically. “She is possessed of common sense, and I am going to ask Lady to invite her to come down and stay at Goblin Hall—that I am!” “And do you think Lady will comply with your request?” inquired Harcourt. “Will—what?” “Will do it, when you ask her?” “Why, of course she will, when I tell her what a dear, good woman Miss Annie is. Lady is possessed of common sense, you bet. She has invited ever so many poor people to come to her house this summer. She has such a great big house, with ever so many rooms in it, and ever such a great big garden, with ever so much fruit and flowers in it. She’s got everything she wants, and plenty of it—eggs and roses and banty chickens, and potatoes, and strawberries, and cows, and—and—things, you know—ever so many.” “But will Lady be willing to share all these things with a perfect stranger like Annie Moss?” inquired Harcourt, solely for the purpose of drawing the child out to talk of his loved and lost Roma. But Owlet looked at him in solemn disapprobation. Why should he, or any one, doubt that Lady would do everything that was kind to everybody, her eyes seemed to ask. Then she answered: “Of course she will! And, of course, Miss Annie will be no stranger after I have told Lady all about her; and Lady will be sure to invite her to come to Goblin Hall. You’ll see. Oh! I think I will ask Lady to invite you to stay when you take me home to her. Wouldn’t you like to stay?” inquired Owlet, with sudden inspiration.