“Dolly—my Dolly Rose! But she ain’t a Moon! She said her name was Rose—Dorothy Rose.”
“Boy! tell me what you’re driving at! Who’s Dorothy Rose?” The man dropped heavily into the chair he had just quitted.
“Why, she’s a girl,” Doodles explained. “That’s her room,” pointing to the opposite side of the hall. “But she ain’t there now,” he added hastily, for the old man was rising, his face set towards the door indicated.
“Oh!” exclaimed Doodles softly, “she said her grandpa called her Dolly! She did! But her name’s Rose,” he insisted sadly.
“Oh, ’t ain’t likely it’s my Dolly!” was the dreary conclusion. Then a light stole into the clouded eyes. “Her name ain’t Rosetta, is it?”
“No, just Rose,” the boy replied slowly.
“And—” he hesitated, reluctant to let go his forlorn hope, “she ain’t lame, is she?”
“Oh, she is!” piped Doodles excitedly. “Only a little—not enough to hurt her a bit!” even in that significant moment loyal to his friend.
The withered face flushed and whitened. The faded eyes grew bright. “And has she got curly hair?”
“Yes, lovely! And red cheeks!”