“Yes,” said she, eagerly wheeling round; “where is it?” “Never mind. If you will tell me, I will bring you some to-morrow.” “What’s in that paper? I ’spec’ it’s candy, right now!” “No,” said he, smiling; “but I will bring you some to-morrow if you will tell me.” She stuck a finger into her mouth and hung her head. “Red candy,” began he, “and blue candy,” he continued, nodding his head up and down, between the varieties, with a sort of pantomimic punctuation, “and green candy—” Wide-eyed delight and a half-smile of eager expectation illumined the face of the little tempted one. “And yellow candy, and—let me see—and striped candy, and speckled candy—and—and—and—ALL SORTS OF CANDY!” She clasped her hands and drew a long breath. “Will you?” The infant that hesitates is lost. “And tied up in most _beautiful_ paper—” “You won’t tell Mr. Whacker?” “No, never!!!” In an instant the little creature had sprung towards him, seized his head, pulled it down, pressed her lips against his ear, shot the momentous name therein and bounded back. “There! Give me the candy!” “I said I should get it to-morrow. But I didn’t hear a word. Tell me over again. There,—whisper it in my ear. Willie? Willie what?” said he, drawing her towards him. “Ah, that is the name, is it?” We did not hear the name, and I must suppose it was that of some near neighbor of her father’s. “Now, don’t tell Mr. Whacker!” “No,” replied the stranger; but he had heard her with the outward ear only. He sat, with drawn lids, gazing upon the pavement, and softly biting his nails, as though solving some problem. His lips seemed to move; and every now and then he looked, out of the corners of his eyes, at his little companion. At last he slowly rose, but stood motionless, with eyes fixed upon the ground. “Oh, don’t go!” cried she, her fair, upturned face wearing a beautiful expression of infantile affection. And here our mysterious friend had another surprise in store for us. For, when he saw that look, a startled expression came into his face; and leaning forward, he scrutinized her features with a gaze so searching that there was a kind of glare in his eyes,—so that the little girl dropped her eyes and drew back, as though with a feeling of dread. But the Unknown suddenly sat down beside her, and, taking one of her hands in both his, patted it softly, and, in a voice tender as that of a young mother, asked, “But what is _your_ name, my little cherub?” “My name is Laura. Let’s make another house—oh, no, let’s make a boat!” “Not now. But Laura what? What is your other name?” “My name is Laura Poythress.” “Laura Poythress!” He bowed his broad shoulders till his face was almost on a level with hers, and scanning her features intently: “Laura Poythress, Laura Poythress,” repeated he, to himself; “and Lucy, too! and Whacker!” We looked at each other with wide eyes.