It was a pretty little girl, about her own age, with dark curls, and a pink linen frock.
“Hello,” she said, softly, “I want to play with you.”
“Come on,” said Dolly, more than pleased to have company. “Sit right down at the table. There’s a place. I fixed it for Mr. Grey Squirrel, but he didn’t come.”
“I didn’t bring my doll,” said the little girl in pink, “I—I came away in a hurry.”
“I’ll lend you one of mine,” said Dolly. “They’re Arabella and Araminta; take your choice.”
“What’s your own name?” said the visitor, as she picked up Araminta.
“Dolly,—Dolly Dana. What’s yours?”
“I don’t want to tell you,” said the little girl, looking confused.
“Never mind,” said Dolly, sorry for her guest’s evident embarrassment, but thinking her a very strange person. “I’ll call you Pinkie, ’cause your dress is such a pretty pink.”
“All right,” said Pinkie, evidently much relieved.