Angeline Montague did not tell her mother the forfeit she had had to pay to “redeem” the beautiful doll she had brought home from Miss Cicely’s party. In the first place, she conveniently forgot it, and in the second, she always made a point of keeping very still when her mother was in a “tantrum,” and her mother was in a terrible one that day. Something had gone wrong somewhere, for the moment Angeline reached home her mother had caught her by the arm and swung her about roughly, saying: “Ho! So here you are, are you? Then you didn’t get it, did you? And after all the trouble I went to, to teach you how to bow and to hold your tongue and to speak soft and genteel when you did speak! And the money I spent on your clothes, too! I’ve half a mind to beat you well, you great silly. What under the sun your Aunt Theresa’ll do to you, I don’t know—like as not she’ll put you in jail or send you to the reform-school or something. I do declare I never saw such a numb-scull! Where’s your brains, I’d like to know, to let any one else get ahead of you like that?”

Angeline sobbed.

“There now,” continued her mother less harshly. “Quit that, and take off those togs you’ve got on. It makes me just wild to see ’em and think what they cost, and then what a fool you were to let such a chance slip through your fingers.”

Angeline sobbed still more piteously. She knew it was the only way to disarm her mother. After a minute or two the angry woman said: “Hush, hush, I tell you, Angeline, or the neighbors’ll think I’m killing you—and they have enough to say about us already. Besides, you’d better save your tears till your Aunt Theresa comes, for you’ll need ’em then, or I’m mistaken. She ain’t as easy as I am, not by a long sight, and she’ll scold the life out of us both for your foolishness. She’ll probably stop paying for your board and keep into the bargain, and then what’ll become of us, I don’t see. We’ll be turned out into the street, most likely, for I’m two weeks behind with the rent as it is, and goodness knows where I’ll get the money to pay up.”

Angeline’s sobs grew softer. “I did the best I could,” she whimpered. “I never told a livin’ soul my name ain’t Montague or that Aunt Theresa is my aunt, an’ I bowed just like you tol’ me to, an’ I didn’t hardly say annything to annyboddy. I just smiled the way you showed me, as soft as ever I could, an’ Mis’ Hamilton she said I was a sweet little thing. I listened an’ I heard her. I didn’t let noboddy get ahead of me nor nothing. I got the best cakes an’ the biggest orange an’—an’—I would have got a—other things too, but a big man, he was real mean and kept looking!”

“Well, go ’long with you now,” said her mother, whose true name was McGaffey. “Take off those duds or you’ll tear ’em or something an’ then the fat will be in the fire.”

Later that evening when Angeline was in bed her mother had a visitor. It was Theresa, and her angry voice made the little girl quail. She knew Aunt Theresa well and dreaded her, so she pretended to be asleep when her bedroom door was rudely flung open and quick steps came toward her where she lay.

“Get up, you Angeline,” ordered Theresa, clutching her by the arm. “You ain’t asleep, I know your tricks. Get up this minute, I want to talk with you.”

The child came shivering into the outer room.

“Now tell me this minute,” commanded her aunt, “every single thing that happened this afternoon at my house. Don’t you leave out anything, and don’t you tell me a falsehood, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

So the wretched Angeline, shaking with cold and sobbing from fright, confessed to the affair of the broken chocolate-cup.

“There! What did I tell you,” demanded Theresa of Mrs. McGaffey when the story was done. “I knew there was something wrong somewhere, or she’d have gotten the place, sure as preaching. Her tricks will be the ruin of us all before she’s through, I tell you, Harriet. She ought to be beat, that’s what ought to be done to her. She’s a bad child, right through. Why, Mrs. Hamilton as good as told me the whole thing was settled and Angeline was to go straight up to the nursery then and there, and you was to get sixteen dollars a month for the loan of her. The young un that’s there now is nothing to look at—nothing next to Angeline, but she got the place because she hasn’t underhand ways and doesn’t try to make other people suffer for her faults. But I’ll pay her off before I’m through with her, never you fear. In the meantime if I could just punish this child here for her foolishness, it’d do me a world of good. Now go back to bed, you Angeline McGaffey, and if I ever catch you deceiving again and running your mother and me into danger of being disgraced, I’ll attend to you, rest assured of that.”

Angeline crept off to her room, greatly relieved that she had escaped so easily at the hands of her vixenish aunt. She was accustomed by this time, to loud and angry talking, and did not let herself be much disturbed by it. In a very little while, therefore, and long before her Aunt Theresa had gone, she was asleep and dreaming, and the next day she had forgotten all about it. But Theresa did not forget. She had told her sister that she meant to bide her time and wait her chance, but that in the end she’d get even with Polly for having cut Angelina out, as she expressed it, and she intended to keep her word.

After her tumble down-stairs, and the whispered warning James had given her, Polly managed to avoid Theresa. It was not very difficult to do this, for the children spent most of their time in the open air or in the nursery. The cold and stupid morning walks that Priscilla had used to dread, she now looked forward to with pleasure, and her skin and eyes were beginning to show the difference. Miss Cissy’s plan was working like a charm—there could be no doubt about that.

Priscilla, in her quiet, shy little way, had grown to love Polly dearly, and as for Polly, why, she simply adored Priscilla, and would have done anything in the world for her. She “gave up” so entirely in fact, that Hannah often had to interfere to save Priscilla from becoming selfish through too much indulgence. When they played house, Polly was always the baby and Priscilla the mother; when they played school, Polly was the scholar and Priscilla the teacher. In las’-tag, Polly was “It,” no matter how often she caught Priscilla, and when Hannah shook her finger at her, she was sure to whisper: “She’s so little, you know. She can’t run as fast as I can, and it isn’t fair. ’Sides, she likes to think she’s beating. When she las’-tags me she laughs right out loud, she’s so pleased.”

“Well, you mustn’t spoil her, that’s all,” warned Hannah, but she confided to James on more than one occasion that, “that Polly’s a caution. I never saw her equal. She don’t know what it means to think of herself. And the grown-up way she’s got with her, of looking out for Priscilla! Why, you’d think she’d been used to protecting some one all her life.”

“Well, perhaps she has,” suggested James, thoughtfully. “How about that crippled sister of hers. Ain’t she had to protect her? An experience like that puts years on a young thing’s age. By the way, how is the sister?”

Hannah shook her head. “It’s a bad case the doctors think, so Miss Cicely and Mrs. Duer tell me. If it had been properly attended to in the first place, it would be different, but the poor thing was neglected and now it may be too late. We don’t dare tell the child, for her heart is bound up in her sister, and she’s set on her getting well. The two of them were all run down, what with not having enough food to nourish ’em, and perishin’ with the cold last winter on account of no coal, and that tells against the girl’s getting well. She has nothing to bear up on. See now, she’s been at the hospital ever since the week after Priscilla’s birthday, that was the first part of February, and now it’s the last of March. But we don’t give up hope. The doctors say she may possibly get to walk again—only it’ll take a long time, and she’ll have to go through a lot before it happens, if it ever does. She’ll be at the hospital all summer anyhow, and maybe longer. But it’s true, what you say about her being the cause of Polly’s acting old for her years, and having such motherly ways. Poor little creature! She’s actually getting a bit of flesh on her bones, as well as Priscilla, and I declare she’s as pretty as a picture sometimes. I told Mrs. Duer the other day, I was never afraid for Priscilla when Polly was around. She’d just let herself be cut into small pieces before she’d see a hair of Priscilla’s head harmed.”

“She’s got good pluck, I know that,” answered James, thinking of Theresa, and Polly’s fall down-stairs.

Polly had occasion to prove her “pluck” within the course of the next few days.

The children had had their regular romp in the Park one morning and were ready to go home, when Hannah bethought herself of a few little sewing odds and ends that she sorely needed. She made up her mind she would buy them on the way back. It would take her but a few blocks out of her way, and the children would not mind the little extra walk, especially as it was on the fascinating, forbidden ground of the bustling avenue, where so many shops and clanging cable-cars were.

Poor Polly, who had been perfectly used to shifting for herself amid crowds, was greatly amused at Hannah’s command that she “mustn’t let go her hand one minute,” but she did as she was bade, and clung to the nurse’s arm until they reached the shop, where Hannah’s trifles were to be bought. It was an attractive place enough, full of bright-colored ribbons and laces and tinsel and gay embroidery stuffs. There was, however, nothing very interesting to children, except in one corner, where was a counter upon which a number of artistically made rag-dolls were perched. Priscilla fell in love with these at first sight, and tugged at Hannah’s skirts, begging her to “come and see.”

Hannah was busy with her own affairs, but she left them to follow Priscilla and to exclaim, “Why, ain’t they just splendid, now?” as she knew Priscilla wanted her to do.

But Priscilla, it seemed, wanted more than this. “I wish,” she said, in a hesitating, shy murmur: “I wish I could have one of those dollies.”

Hannah stared. “Eh? Mercy on us, what next? Why, what in the world should you want with one of those dolls, when you have a nurseryful already at home. And such superior ones, into the bargain, as these couldn’t hold a candle to. Why, these are nothing but rag-babies, dearie.”

Priscilla swallowed. “I know it,” she whispered, with an effort. “But I like them. I wish I could have one.”

When the little girl spoke in that wistful tone her nurse could deny her nothing. “Well, if you ain’t the curiousest child!” she exclaimed. “But if you want one, why, you want one, and that’s all there is about it.”

The next moment the pinkest-cheeked rag-baby of them all was in Priscilla’s arms. She hugged it to her bosom with a loving clutch she had never given to any of her French dolls, and Hannah exchanged a wink with the saleswoman at sight of her satisfaction.

“May I take my dolly into the street? Just to give her the air?” she asked with motherly solicitude for her baby’s health.

Hannah nodded. “Yes, if you’ll be sure not to leave the door-step. Polly, you go with her, like a good child, and don’t let anything happen to her. Now, run along, like dearies, and let me do my shoppin’ in peace.”

“I think,” said Priscilla, as she and Polly stood outside the shop-door, “I think I’ll name this baby Polly. Then she’ll be part yours, won’t she? ’Sides, I think the name of Polly is a ’stremely nice name.”

Polly laughed right out with pleasure at the compliment. “If you name her Polly I’ll be her relation, won’t I? And I’ll have to give her things and look after her. Oh, dear me! I wonder what Hannah’ll say?”

What Hannah would say was never recorded, for just at this moment a dirty hand thrust itself over Priscilla’s shoulder and snatched her precious baby from her arms, while a hoarse voice broke out into a jeering laugh that almost frightened the children out of their wits.

“Hi, there!” it cried roughly. “A doll’s relation! That’s good! The name of Polly is a ’stremely nice name! Bless me if it ain’t!”

Priscilla’s lips were blue with terror and she but dimly saw the face of the mischievous newsboy, as he leered wickedly at her darling doll, pretending to dance it up and down in his dirty hands.

But Polly’s eyes were blazing. “Give that doll back this minute!” she broke out in a tremor of indignation.

The newsboy looked at her and grinned. “Oh, say, now,” he cried. “Who’ll make me? Ain’t I fond o’ dolls meself? An’ ain’t I got a little sister at home as just dotes on ’em? W’y, my little sister—queer now, ain’t it, but her name’s Polly! a ’stremely nice name, Polly is! well my sister Polly will just be tickled out of her boots when I bring her this.”

“You give it back,” stammered Polly, breathless and panting with anger.

“Not on your life,” jeered the young rascal, delighted to see he was teasing her so successfully, and clutching the rag-doll more tightly in one arm while he shifted his bundle of papers in the other.

Polly darted at him; her hand swung out, and the next moment his ear was tingling from a well-aimed blow. For an instant he was too amazed to stir. Then he dropped his papers and the doll together and made a dash for Polly. She ducked, he tripped on the shallow door-step and lost his footing. It was Polly’s chance and she did not lose it. In a twinkling she had dived for his papers, caught them up and was flying down the street as fast as her swift feet would carry her.

“Go in,” she shouted back to Priscilla. “Go in to Hannah!” Then on she sped like a little whirlwind, the newsboy after her in hot pursuit.

She knew he must outstrip her in a very few moments, for he was far older and stronger than she. Her breath was already coming in painful gasps and she felt she could not hold out much longer with the wind blowing against her like this. He was rapidly gaining. She could hear the clatter of his heavy boots on the pavement. In a second more he would have clutched her. Her brain worked like lightning. She snatched a paper from the bunch in her arm and flung it into the teeth of the wind, not daring to pause long enough to look back to see if her pursuer had stopped to capture it. She dropped another and another, all the while making toward home, as fast as she could fly. At length she had only one left, but she was in sight of the house and Priscilla’s tormentor was a full block behind. She flung the last one back with a great sob of relief and then paused a second to catch her breath and look behind her. The wind carried the paper straight into the young rascal’s face. He caught it and hurried on without losing a second. Polly’s heart almost stopped beating. It seemed to her as if her feet had grown suddenly heavy as lead. If she could only reach home! But she heard those heavy boots stamping nearer and nearer. Lagging and panting she reached the house and began to crawl and stumble up the steps scrambling on all fours, like a baby. The fellow was close at hand. He could leap the flight, two steps at a time she knew. She reached the top just as he sprung to the bottom. Her strength served her to touch the bell. It faintly rang—but too faintly to bring James if he did not happen to be right there. On the instant, however, the door opened and to the butler’s amazement Polly stumbled blindly over the threshold and pitched headlong into the hall.