“Robin,” said old Mrs Willis from her bed, in the wheeziest of voices.

 

“Who’s Robin, granny?” demanded young Slidder, in some surprise, looking over his shoulder as he stooped at the fire to stir a pan of gruel.

 

“You are Robin,” returned the old lady following up the remark with a feeble sneeze. “I can’t stand Slidder. It is such an ugly name. Besides, you ought to have a Christian name, child. Don’t you like Robin?”

 

The boy chuckled a little as he stirred the gruel.

 

“Vell, I ain’t had it long enough to ’ave made up my mind on the p’int, but you may call me wot you please, granny, s’long as you don’t swear. I’ll answer to Robin, or Bobin, or Dobin, or Nobin, or Flogin—no, by the way, I won’t answer to Flogin. I don’t like that. But why call me Robin?”

 

“Ah!” sighed the old woman, “because I once had a dear little son so named. He died when he was about your age, and your kindly ways are so like his that—”

 

“Hallo, granny!” interrupted Slidder, standing up with a look of intense surprise, “are you took bad?”

 

“No. Why?”

 

“’Cause you said suthin’ about my ways that looks suspicious.”

 

“Did I, Robin? I didn’t mean to. But as I was saying, I’d like to call you Robin because it reminds me of my little darling who is now in heaven. Ah! Robin was so gentle, and loving, and tender, and true, and kind. He was a good boy!”

 

A wheezing, which culminated in another feeble sneeze, here silenced the poor old thing.

 

For some minutes after that Slidder devoted himself to vigorous stirring of the gruel, and to repressed laughter, which latter made him very red in the face, and caused his shoulders to heave convulsively. At last he sought relief in occasional mutterings.

 

“On’y think!” he said, quoting Mrs Willis’s words, in a scarcely audible whisper, “‘so gentle, an’ lovin’, an’ tender, an’ true, an’ kind’—an’ sitch a good boy too—an’ my kindly ways is like his, are they? Well, well, Mrs W, it’s quite clear that a loo-natic asylum must be your native ’ome arter this.”

 

“What are you muttering about, Robin?”

 

“Nuffin’ partikler, granny. On’y suthin’ about your futur’ prospec’s. The gruel’s ready, I think. Will you ’ave it now, or vait till you get it?”

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