“Well——” Daisy began, and was about to mention the grounds of her doubt; but tact prevailed with her, and she asked a question instead. “What’s its name?” “Name Willamilla.” “What?” “Name Willamilla.” “Willamilla?” said Daisy. “I never heard it before, but it’s a right pretty name.” “Yes’m indeed!” the coloured woman agreed enthusiastically. “Willamilla lovin’, happy, _gran’_ name!” “What’s the dog’s name?” Laurence asked. “Hossifer.” Laurence frowned importantly. “Is he full-blooded?” he inquired. “Is he who?” “I guess he isn’t very full-blooded,” Laurence said. “Will he bite?” “Hossifer?” she said. “Hossifer, he a mighty lovin’ dog! Bite? He ain’ bite nobody. Hossifer, he a lovin’-hearted dog.” Elsie had come out of her gate, and she bent over the wagon with Daisy. “Oh, my!” she said wistfully. “I do wish we could have this baby to play with.” “Couldn’t we?” Daisy asked of the baby’s grandmother. “Would you be willing to sell it to us?” “No’m,” the coloured woman replied, though she manifested no surprise at the question. “No’m; my son-’law, he wouldn’ lem me sell no Willamilla.” “Well, would you give it to us, then?” “No’m. Can’ give Willamilla ’way.” “Oh, my!” Daisy exclaimed. “I do wish we could have this baby to play with awhile, anyway.” The woman appeared to consider this, and her processes of considering it interested the children. Her streaked eyes were unusually large and protuberant; she closed them, letting the cumbrous lids roll slowly down over them, and she swayed alarmingly as she did this, almost losing her balance, but she recovered herself, opened her eyes widely, and said: “How long you want play with Willamilla, honey?” “Oh!” Daisy cried. “Will you let us? Oh, all afternoon!” “Listen me,” said Willamilla’s grandmother. “I got errand I love to go on. Wagon push ri’ heavy, too. I leave Willamilla with you lovin’ li’l whi’ chillun, an’ come back free o’clock.” “Oh, lovely!” Daisy and Elsie both shouted. “Free o’clock,” said the coloured woman. “That’ll give us _lots_ o’ time,” said Elsie. “Maybe almost an hour!” The woman took a parcel from the wagon; it was wrapped in an old newspaper, and its shape was the shape of a bottle, though not that of an infant’s milk-bottle. Also, the cork was not quite secure, and the dampened paper about the neck of this bottle gave forth a faint odour of sweet spirits of niter mingled with the spicy fragrance of a decoction from juniper, but naturally neither the odour nor the shape of the parcel meant anything to the children. It meant a great, great deal to Willamilla’s grandma, however; and her lovingness visibly increased as she took the parcel in her arms.