Lucy stood still; very anxious, and wondering whether she should see
anything alive, or one of her visitors from various countries.

"There is a letter from Mr. Seaman," said a brisk young voice, that
would have been very pleasant if it had not gone a little through
the nose; and past Mrs. Bunker there walked into the full light a
little boy, a year or two older than Lucy, holding out one hand as
he saw her and taking off his hat with the other. "Good morning,"
he said, quite at ease; "is this where you live?"

"Good morning," returned Lucy though it was not morning at all; "where
do you come from?"

"Well, I'm from Paris last; but when I'm at home, I'm at Boston. I
am Leonidas Saunders, of the great American Republic."

"Oh, then you are not real, after all?"

"Real! I should hope I was a genuine article."

"Well, I was in hopes that you were real, only you say you come from
a strange country, like the rest of them, and yet you look just like
an English boy."

"Of course I do! my grandfather came from England," said Leonidas; "we
all speak English as well, or better, than you do in the old country."

"I can't understand it!" said Lucy; "did you come like other people,
by the train, not like the children in my dreams?"