“Where’s your brush?” called Blue from the bedroom. “S’pose you’d have a fit if your hair wasn’t fixed up! If mine was curly like yours, catch me fussin’ to brush it every other minute!—There’s Joseph now!” as a foot was heard upon the stairs. And he ran to welcome him.
On the following day Dolly Moon’s door was again ajar. It had long had a habit of unlatching with the least puff of air. Coming up from the street Blue spied it, and he turned that way. The picturesque little stranger was in range of the slit of light.
“Hello, kiddie!”
It was a cheerful, friendly greeting; but the only answer was the prompt banging of the door. The boy retreated, surprised and angry.
“They needn’t put on airs!” he muttered indignantly. “They aren’t any better than other folks. Granny O’Donnell wouldn’t do that, nor anybody else in this house.”
Little was seen by the Stickneys of their new neighbors. Occasionally the woman or one of the men appeared in the corridor; but the child was not in sight. Late one afternoon, however, Blue discovered the door again unlatched. Cautiously he stole across the passage. In a farther corner of the room was a bed, and above the coverlet the boy discerned the little one’s face.
“That’s why I haven’t seen her,” he thought. “Measles, prob’ly—they’re all round.”
The rustling sounds back of the door were broken by a moan. Then, in a man’s voice, was observed:—
“Bet she’s goin’ to die!”
“Just our luck!” responded another beyond Blue’s vision.