“Good gracious, sister! You’ll bankrupt me!” and Patty inquired the price of the little coaches.
Moreover, the wilful purchaser declined all but the best and biggest, and when it was ordered sent home, Patty hurried her charge out of the store lest she demand further booty.
With the big doll they went back home, and Patty set herself to work to get further knowledge of the child’s antecedents.
But here efforts were vain. She learned only the age of her guest and no other statistics.
“Mos’ two ’ears old,” Middy declared she was, but except for that, no information was forthcoming.
Inquiries regarding her father brought only blank looks.
“Haven’t you any father at all?” urged Patty.
“No; no fader. Poor Middy dot no fader!”
But the bid for sympathy was so clearly insincere, and the accompanying smile so merry that Patty concluded she had no father of her recollection.
It soon transpired that the wily mite called for sympathy on all occasions. “Poor Middy,” was her constant plea, if she wanted anything.