“It wasn’t I who said she was horrid, you know,” said Jessie with an emphasis on the I.
“Well, I don’t care. You thought so.” Adele wiped her eyes and stood thoughtfully picking off the dead leaves from a potted geranium on a shelf near by. Jessie was silent. She hardly knew whether to go or stay.
Presently Adele turned around with the sweetest of smiles. “Let’s play,” she said. “I’ll show you all my dolls. Why didn’t you bring Charity or Peter Pan with you?”
“I will next time,” said Jessie, relieved at the turn of affairs, but wondering what kind of girl Adele really was.
“Come,” cried Adele, grasping Jessie’s hand. “The dolls are all up in the playroom. I was making medicine for them just now. They have ague, every blessed one of them, and they are shaking their heads off, at least one of them is,” she added with a laugh. “I’ll show you which one it is.” She pulled Jessie along the boardwalk and up-stairs to a pleasant upper room where six dolls were abed, most of them staring smilingly at the ceiling, though two of them had their eyes shut. Adele picked up one of them and showed a very wobbly head which seemed in danger of soon departing from its body. “This is the shakiest one,” she said, “and she’ll have to have a double dose of medicine. Indeed, I don’t know but that she will have to go to a hospital. That is my newest one.” She pointed to a very fresh and smiling flaxen-haired beauty.
“What is her name?” asked Jessie.
“She hasn’t any in particular. I never name my dolls.”
“Oh, don’t you?” This seemed as incredible to Jessie as if she had been told that a family of children had been left unnamed. “I don’t see how you get along if you don’t name them,” she said.
“Oh, I scarcely ever play with more than one at a time, and then I can always call that one dolly or honey or something,” was the reply.
“I should think you would have to name them,” persisted Jessie. “When you are talking about them what do you say?”