"Well, that's just like a girl's bosh--but still, you're right: I am Dick Gregory, son of George Gregory, surgeon, living at Lakely, next station to Cherton, where you get out, you know." The girl nodded. "Now, mademoiselle, what may your name be?" he asked, as the train carried them into the station with a whiz. "Inna Weston." "Inna: is that short for anything?" "Yes--for Peninnah: papa's mother's name is Peninnah; and so, and so----" "And so your father chose to let you play grandmother to yourself in the matter of names?" "Yes," a little ripple of a word full of laughter--her companion was so funny. "Now guess what's in this hamper?" was Dick's next proposition; "that's safe ground, you know, to guess over a hamper when the owner bids you," he added, by way of encouragement. "A kitten." The train was carrying them on again, without any intruder to cut off the thread of their talk, except the guard, who put his head in at the window, and beamed a smile on Inna, as her caretaker; then he shut the door, and locked them in, and here was the train tearing on again. "Well, now, you are a good guesser for a girl," said Dick. "I didn't guess: I knew it. I heard her mew," smiled Inna. "Ah! Miss Inna is a little pitcher, pussy; she has sharp ears," said pussy's master, peering and speaking through the hamper. "Me--e--e--w!" came like a prolonged protest against all the hurry-scurry and noise, so confusing to a kitten shut up in a hamper, not knowing why nor whither she was travelling. "Now, who am I taking her to? guess that; and if you guess right, I should say you're a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and of gipsy origin"--so the merry boy challenged her. "To your sister." "Right!" laughed Dick. "But I'm not a seventh daughter--I'm only daughter to mamma, and so was mamma before me; and I'm not a gipsy." Inna's face was brimming over with shy merriment. "Well, you ought to be, for you're a clever guesser of dark secrets," returned the boy. "Yes: I'm taking pussy home to my sister. Her name is--now, what is her name?" Inna shook her head. "Something pretty I should say, but I don't know what." "Oh! you're not much of a witch after all," said Dick. "No, it isn't anything pretty--it's Jane." Inna smiled, and looked wise. "Well, what is it, Miss Inna? Out with it!" cried Dick, watching her changeful little face. "Mamma says, when one has an ugly name one must try to live a life to make it beautiful." "Hum! Well, that isn't bad. And when one has a beautiful name--like Dick, for instance," said he waggishly, "what then?" "Then the name should help the life, and the life the name--so mamma said when I asked her." "Well, your mother must be good," said Dick to this. "Yes, she is." Wistful lights were stealing into Inna's eyes, and Dick had a suspicion that there were tears in them. "I'm not blest with one," spoke he, carelessly to all seeming. "With no mother?" inquired his companion gently.