“She was walkin’ along nice only a little way behind us,” Daisy said, “until you went near her.” “I went near _who_?” Laurence asked, looking very much disturbed. “_Who_ was walkin’ along nice?” “Hossifer was. You said _I_ scared her, and all the time she——” “Listen!” said Laurence, breathing rapidly. “I won’t stand it. This dog isn’t a girl!” “Hossifer’s a girl’s name,” said Daisy placidly. “I bet you never heard of a boy by that name in your life!” “Well, what if I never?” “Well,” said Daisy authoritatively, “that proves it. Hossifer’s a girl’s name and you just the same as said so yourself. Elsie, didn’t he say Hossifer isn’t a boy’s name, an’ doesn’t that prove Hossifer’s a girl?” “Yes, it does,” Elsie returned with decision. Laurence looked at them; then he shook his head. “Oh, _my_!” he said morosely, for these two appeared set upon allowing him no colleagues or associates whatever, and he felt himself at the end of his resources. Daisy began to sing again at once. “Oh, my dar-lun lit-_tull_ bay-hay-_bee_-hee!” she sang; and she may have been too vehement for Willamilla, who had thus far remained remarkably placid under her new circumstances; Willamilla began to cry. She began in a mild way, with a whimper, inaudible on account of the lullaby; then she slightly increased her protest, making use of a voice like the tinnier tones of a light saxophone; and having employed this mild mechanism for some time, without securing any relief from the shrillness that bothered her, she came to the conclusion that she was miserable. Now, she was of this disposition: once she arrived at such a conclusion, she remained at it, and nothing could convey to her mind that altered conditions had removed what annoyed her, until she became so exhausted by the protraction of her own protests that she slept, forgot and woke to a new life. She marked the moment of her decision, this afternoon, by the utterance of a wail that rose high over the singing; she lifted up her voice and used the full power of lungs and throat to produce such a sound that even the heart of the father was disquieted, while the mamma and the visiting lady at once flung themselves on their knees beside the wagon. “Whassa _matta_? Whassa _matta_?” Daisy and Elsie inquired some dozens of times, and they called Willamilla a “peshus baby” even oftener, but were unable to quiet her. Indeed, as they shouted their soothing endearments, her tears reached a point almost torrential, and she beat the coverlet with her small fat hands. “He’s mad about somep’m, I guess,” the father observed, looking down upon her. “Or else he’s got a spasm, maybe.” “She hasn’t either,” Daisy said. “She’ll stop in a minute.” “Well, it might not be spasms,” Laurence said. “But I bet whatever it is, it happened from all that singin’.”