Like me, he wondered what the extraordinary nick-name under which she had presented herself could possibly mean.
We looked at the child.

The child--with its legs stretched out straight before it, terminating in a pair of little dusty boots with holes in them--lifted its large round eyes, overshadowed by a penthouse of unbrushed flaxen hair; looked gravely at us in return; and made a second call on our hospitality, as follows: "Jicks will have something to drink." While Oscar ran into the kitchen for some milk, I succeeded in discovering the identity of "Jicks." Something--I cannot well explain what--in the manner in which the child had drifted into the room with her doll, reminded me of the lymphatic lady of the rectory, drifting backwards and forwards with the baby in one hand and the novel in the other.

I took the liberty of examining "Jicks's" pinafore, and discovered the mark in one corner:--"Selina Finch." Exactly as I had supposed, here was a member of Mrs.Finch's numerous family.

Rather a young member, as it struck me, to be wandering hatless round the environs of Dimchurch, all by herself.
Oscar returned with the milk in a mug.

The child--insisting on taking the mug into her own hands--steadily emptied it to the last drop--recovered her breath with a gasp--looked at me with a white mustache of milk on her upper lip--and announced the conclusion of her visit, in these terms: "Jicks will get down again." I deposited our young friend on the floor.