"Bubble Chirk!" said the boy. "Kin' o' curus name, ain't it? The hull of
it's Zerubbabel Chirk; but most folks ain't got time to say all that. It
trips you up, too, sort o'. Bubble's what they call me; 'nless it's
Bub."
The contrast between the boy's earnest and rather pathetic face, and
his absurdly volatile name, was almost too much for Hilda's gravity. But
she checked the laugh which rose to her lips, and asked: "Don't you go
to school at all, Bubble? It is a pity that you shouldn't, when you are
so fond of study."
"Gin'lly go for a spell in the winter," replied Bubble. "They ain't no
school in summer, y' know. Boys hes to work, round here. Mam ain't got
nobody but me 'n Pink, sence father died."
"Who is Pink?" asked Hilda, gently.
"My sister," replied Bubble. "Thet ain't _her_ real name, nuther. Mam
hed her christened Pinkrosia, along o' her bein' so fond o' roses, Mam
was; but we don't call her nothin' only Pink."
"Pink Chirk!" repeated Hilda to herself. "What a name! What can a girl
be like who is called Pink Chirk?"
But now Bubble seemed to think that it was his turn to ask questions. "I
reckon you're the gal that's come to stay at Mr. Hartley's?" he said in
an interrogative tone.
Hilda's brow darkened for a moment at the word "gal," which came with
innocent frankness from the lips of the ragged urchin before her. But
the next moment she remembered that it was only the old Hilda who cared
about such trifles; so she answered pleasantly enough:
"Yes, I am staying at Mr.
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