Again the stranger rose; this time with nervous abruptness, and took a few rapid turns up and down the pavement, close to little Laura; then walking quickly up to her, and stooping down, he asked her, in an eager whisper, “Have you any mother?” “Yeth,” replied she, with a simple little laugh, “of courth; evvybody’th dot a muvver!” He seemed to avert his face when she laid down this generalization; nor could we, from our position, see his expression. “Yes,” said he; and was silent for a while. “What is your mother’s name?” “My mother’s name is Mumma.” “But what is her real sure-enough name?” “Her name is Mumma,” repeated she, with emphasis. “Oh, my mother’s got two names. She is named Mumma and she is named Mrs. Poythress.” “Ah, yes; but what does your father call her?” “My papa calls my mumma my dear; oh, and sometimes he calls her ‘honey,’—because she is so sweet.” “Does he ever call her—let me see—does he ever call her Polly?” “Oh, me, the idea!” cried she, raising her hands and eyes in infantile pity of his ignorance. “Why, that’s Aunt Polly’s name!” “So your Aunt Polly is named Polly, is she?” “No, she ain’t! Aunt Polly is named _Aunt_ Polly. She is our cook at our house, she is.” “She is your cook, is she? And what does she call your mother?” “Mistiss.” Just then the mulatto barber, passing by, doffed his hat to the gentleman; and Dolly, the nurse, left alone, bethought her of her charge. Coming up, she dropped a courtesy to the Stranger, and told Laura it was time she were within doors. “Good-by, Laura,” said the Unknown, taking her plump little hand in his; “won’t you give me a kiss? Ah, that’s a good little girl! One more! And another! Ah!” And he patted her cheek. “Good-by!” “Dood-by!” CHAPTER III. We looked at each other, and, although two-thirds of us were girls, several seconds passed without a word being spoken. “Oh, here comes Mary!” And, looking across the way, I saw Mary Rolfe briskly tripping down the steps of her father’s residence. Away scampered Alice and Lucy into the hall; not to unlock the front door for Mary, for that, Richmond-fashion, stood wide open; but impelled by that instinctive conviction, never entirely absent from the female breast, that life is short. I followed with all the dignity of a fledgling counsellor-at-law, and possible future supreme justice. The three met on the sidewalk and it began,—_Eurus, Zephyrusque Notusque_.