Doing my best to make them friends, I seized the little stranger, and gave her several good tosses-up, as well as tickles between them; and this was more than she could resist, being, as her nature shows, thoroughly fond of any kind of pleasure and amusement. She laughed, and she flung out her arms, and every time she made such jumps as to go up like a feather. Pretty soon I saw, however, that this had gone on too long for Bunny. She put her poor handkerchief out of sight, and then some fingers into her mouth, and she looked as black as a dog in a kennel. But Bardie showed good-nature now, for she ran up to Bunny and took her hand and led her to me, and said very nicely, “Give this ickle gal some, old Davy. She haven’t had no pay at all. Oh, hot boofley buckens oo’s got! Jolly, jolly! Keel song grand!”
This admiration of my buttons—which truly were very handsome, being on my regulation-coat, and as good as gilt almost, with “Minotaur” (a kind of grampus, as they say) done round them—this appreciation of the navy made me more and more perceive what a dear child was come ashore to us, and that we ought to look alive to make something out of her. If she had any friends remaining (and they could scarcely have all been drowned), being, as she clearly was, of a high and therefore rich family, it might be worth ten times as much as even my boat had been to me, to keep her safe and restore her in a fat state when demanded. With that I made up my mind to take her home with me that very night, especially as Bunny seemed to have set up a wonderful fancy to her. But man sees single, God sees double, as our saying is, and her bits of French made me afraid that she might after all be a beggar.
“Now go and play, like two little dears, and remember whose day it is,” I said to them both, for I felt the duty of keeping my grandchild up to the mark on all religious questions; “and be sure you don’t go near the well, nor out of sight of the house at all, nor pull the tails of the chickens out, nor throw stones at the piggy-wiggy,” for I knew what Bunny’s tricks were. “And now, Watty, my boy, come and talk to me, and perhaps I will give you a juneating apple from my own tree under the Clevice.”
Although the heat was tremendous now (even inside those three-feet walls), the little things did as I bade them. And I made the most of this occasion to have a talk with Watkin, who told me everything he knew. His mother had not been down since dinner, which they always got anyhow; because his father, who had been poorly for some days, and feverish, and forced to lie in bed a little, came to the top of the stairs, and called, requiring some attendance. What this meant I knew as well as if I had seen black Evan there, parched with thirst and with great eyes rolling after helpless drunkenness, and roaring, with his nightclothes on, for a quart of fresh-drawn ale.
But about the shipwrecked child Watty knew scarce anything. He had found her in his bed that morning—Moxy, no doubt, having been hard pushed (with her husband in that state) what to do. And knowing how kind young Watty was, she had quartered the baby upon him. But Watkin, though gifted with pretty good English (or “Sassenach,” as we call it) beyond all the rest of his family, could not follow the little creature in her manner of talking; which indeed, as I found thereafter, nobody in the parish could do except myself, and an Englishwoman whose word was not worth taking.
“Indeed and indeed then, Mr. Llewellyn,” he went on in English, having an evident desire to improve himself by discourse with me, “I did try, and I did try; and my mother, she try too. Times and times, for sure we tried. But no use was the whole of it. She only shakes her head, and thinks with all her might, as you may say. And then she says ‘No! I’se not hot you says. I’se two years old, and I’se Bardie. And my papa he be very angy if ’e goes on so with me. My mama yoves me, and I yove her, and papa, and ickle bother, and everybody. But not the naughty bad man, I doesn’t.’ That isn’t true English now, I don’t think; is it then, Mr. Llewellyn?”
“Certainly not,” I answered, seeing that my character for good English was at stake.
“And mother say she know well enough the baby must be a foreigner. On her dress it is to show it. No name, as the Christians put, but marks without any meaning. And of clothes so few upon her till mother go to the old cupboard. Rich people mother do say they must be; but dead by this time, she make no doubt.”
“Boy,” I replied, “your mother, I fear, is right in that particular. To me it is a subject of anxiety and sorrow. And I know perhaps more about it than anyone else can pretend to do.”
The boy looked at me with wonder and eagerness about it. But I gave him a
