"I can't just remember the name I'm thinking about," said Gwendolyn, troubled.
He glanced up. And the round, bright eyes were grave as he searched her face. "I wonder," he said in a low voice, "if you know who you are."
She smiled. "Well, I've been acquainted with myself for seven years," she declared.
"But do you know who you are?" (The round eyes were full of tears!)
She felt uncertain. "I did just a little while ago. Now, though—"
He reached to take her hand. "Shall I tell you?"
"Yes,"—in a whisper.
"You're the Poor Little Rich Girl." He patted her hand. "The Poor Little Rich Girl!"
She nodded bravely, and stood looking up at him. He was old and unkempt. Out at elbows, too. And the bottoms of his baggy trousers hung in dusty shreds. But his lined and bearded face was kind! "I—I haven't been so very happy," she said falteringly.
He shook his head. "Not happy! And no step-relations, either!"