"But don't you know where your
own pa and ma are?"
"Papa," whispered Carrie, like a baby trying the words. "Mamma. Papa
--mamma."
"Yes, dear," exclaimed aunt Corinne. "Where do they live? She's big
enough to know that if she knows anything."
"Let's get her to sing a song," suggested Bobaday. "If she can
remember a song, she can remember what happened before they made her
sing."
"That papa?" said Carrie, looking at the stranger by the table.
"No," returned aunt Corinne, deigning a glance his way. "That's only
a gentleman goin' to eat supper here. Sing, Carrie. Now, Bobaday
Padgett," warned aunt Corinne, shooting her whisper behind the curled
head, "don't you go and scare her by sayin' anything about that pig-man."
"Don't you scare her yourself," returned Robert with a touch of
indignation. "You've got her eyes to stickin' out now. Sing a pretty
tune, Carrie. Come on, now."
The docile child slid off the lounge and stood against it, piping
directly one of her songs. Yet while her trembling treble arose, she
had a troubled expression, and twisted her fingers about each other.
In an instant this expression became one of helpless terror. She
crowded back against the lounge and tried to hide herself behind
Bobaday and Corinne.
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