The doll, a battered but evidently well-loved affair, was brought, and a box held in a shawl strap, which no doubt contained the small person’s wearing apparel.
“But how did you know her name was Miss Rowantree?” Azalea asked, or started to ask. Before she had finished her question she saw on the child’s dark blue reefer a piece of cloth, neatly sewn in place, and with these words on it in indelible ink:
“Constance Rowantree. Please see that she leaves the train at Rowantree Road.”
“You’re terrible young to be traveling alone, child,” said Aunt Zillah seriously. “How ever could they let you do it?”
“I got so homesick they had to,” explained the child with equal gravity. “Nobody could come with me, so I had to come alone. I don’t mind,” she added valiantly.
“I hope you reach your home before dark,” went on Aunt Zillah, quite at ease now that she had somebody to worry about.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” the child answered, “I’ll get home a long time before sundown, and my father will meet me.” She spoke in such a slow and particular fashion that she made them all smile.
“That’s all right then,” said Azalea cheerfully, who was afraid the little girl was having some fears manufactured for her. “Now, please tell me the name of your doll.”
“It’s Mary Cecily Rowantree, after my mamma,” said the little girl. “Isn’t that a pretty name?”
“Pretty as a song,” said the youth, who was still standing by them.