“How dared you take my things, you bad child?”

“Is it yours?  Then you are my mamma; ain’t you?  You are Mamma!” she continued gleefully; and before Mrs. Tretherick could avoid her, she had dropped her doll, and, catching the woman’s skirts with both hands, was dancing up and down before her.

“What’s your name, child?” said Mrs. Tretherick coldly, removing the small and not very white hands from her garments.

“Tarry.”

“Tarry?”

“Yeth.  Tarry.  Tarowline.”

“Caroline?”

“Yeth.  Tarowline Tretherick.”

“Whose child are you?” demanded Mrs. Tretherick still more coldly, to keep down a rising fear.

“Why, yours,” said the little creature with a laugh.  “I’m your little durl.  You’re my mamma, my new mamma.  Don’t you know my ol’ mamma’s dorn away, never to turn back any more?  I don’t live wid my ol’ mamma now.  I live wid you and Papa.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Mrs. Tretherick snappishly.

“I fink it’s free days,” said Carry reflectively.

“You think!  Don’t you know?” sneered Mrs. Tretherick.  “Then, where did you come from?”

Carry’s lip began to work under this sharp cross-examination.  With a great effort and a small gulp, she got the better of it, and answered: 

“Papa, Papa fetched me—­from Miss Simmons—­from Sacramento, last week.”

“Last week!  You said three days just now,” returned Mrs. Tretherick with severe deliberation.

“I mean a monf,” said Carry, now utterly adrift in sheer helplessness and confusion.

“Do you know what you are talking about?” demanded Mrs. Tretherick shrilly, restraining an impulse to shake the little figure before her and precipitate the truth by specific gravity.

But the flaming red head here suddenly disappeared in the folds of Mrs. Tretherick’s dress, as if it were trying to extinguish itself forever.

“There now—­stop that sniffling,” said Mrs. Tretherick, extricating her dress from the moist embraces of the child and feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.  “Wipe your face now, and run away, and don’t bother.  Stop,” she continued, as Carry moved away.  “Where’s your papa?”

“He’s dorn away too.  He’s sick.  He’s been dorn”—­she hesitated—­“two, free, days.”

“Who takes care of you, child?” said Mrs. Tretherick, eying her curiously.

“John, the Chinaman.  I tresses myselth.  John tooks and makes the beds.”

“Well, now, run away and behave yourself, and don’t bother me any more,” said Mrs. Tretherick, remembering the object of her visit.  “Stop—­where are you going?” she added as the child began to ascend the stairs, dragging the long doll after her by one helpless leg.

“Doin’ upstairs to play and be dood, and no bother Mamma.”

“I ain’t your mamma,” shouted Mrs. Tretherick, and then she swiftly re-entered her bedroom and slammed the door.