“Thither Luthy hath dawn up-thtairs, I weckon,”—that was the way she said it; but words so distorted, charm, as they may, when they fall, like crumpled rose-leaves, from the fair portals of a child’s mouth, can please the eye of a phonetic reformer only. And so with the reader’s consent,—in fact, as a compliment to her,—I shall leave, in the main, such transformations to her fancy. Besides, how utterly unintelligible would be a dialogue, so printed, to the very person for whose benefit, chiefly, this work has been undertaken. In his illumined day, you know, infants will have ceased to lisp. The stranger had risen from his seat with rather a startled look, but upon this reassuring suggestion of his little friend, resumed it. “You love your sister Lucy ever so much, I suppose?” “Oh, yes, indeed. Mr. Whacker does, too.” This remark produced a profound sensation upon two, certainly, of the eavesdroppers. Lucy, who was diffidence itself, blushed to the roots of her hair; while an uncomfortable consciousness of looking foolish took possession of me. Alice, holding her sides, fell exhausted upon a sofa. “Mr. who?” asked he, with a sudden look of interest which startled us all. “Mr. Whacker; don’t you know Mr. Whacker?” “Maybe so; what kind of a man is he?” “Oh, he is a nice man, and he is so funny,—he makes me nearly dead with laughing.” “Does your sister Lucy love this nice, funny Mr. Whacker?” Lucy looked perfectly aghast. “Yes, she do.” “She do, do she?” echoed the Unknown; while ripples of merriment danced about his singularly intense and glowing eyes, like those on the dark waters of some deep lake. “Did she ever tell you so?” “Y-e-e-e-es,” replied she, doubtfully. “Mr. Whacker, I assure you,” began Lucy, choking with mortification, “I—” “I forgive, though I can never forget—” “But—” “St!” whispered Alice; “it is as good as a play!” “But, Alice, it’s a most outrageous—” “Never mind,—listen!” Meantime, we had lost a few sentences of the colloquy, which seemed to be affording intense amusement to the Stranger. “But what did she say?” were the first words we caught. “She said,” began the little thing, gesticulating with her hands and rolling her eyes,—speaking, in fact, with her whole body,—“sister Lucy, she said—” “Well.” “Sister Lucy, she said Mr. Whacker was mighty fat, but he was right pretty.” Imagine the scene behind the curtains! The trouble was that Lucy, who was as truthful as Epaminondas, could not deny having paid me, in substance, this two-edged compliment. So she could only bury her face in her hands. As for the Stranger, he actually laughed aloud. “But do ladies always love pretty men?” “Why, yes; I love my sweetheart, and he is pretty.” “Your sweetheart! Have you a sweetheart?” “Yes,” replied she, with decision and complacency. “What’s his name?” “I can’t tell you!” “Do, now.” “Oh, I _can’t_!” And she dropped her cheek on her off shoulder and shut her eyes. “Say, do you like candy?”