“Oh, yes, he is,” she protested. “He came with me from my home seven
years ago. Those others are his descendants—but they’re not like
Joey—_are they, dee-urr?_” Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like
cry.
Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed and turned to business
again.
“Won’t you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what
it says.”
“It’s rather behind his back,” I said.
“Oh, never mind him,” she cried. “He’s been behind my back long
enough—all these four years. If he never did no worse things behind my
back than I do behind his, he wouldn’t have cause to grumble. You read
me what it says.”
Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began—“My
dear Alfred.”
“I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza’s dear Alfred.” She laughed.
“How do you say it in French? _Eliza?_”