When they reached home, Mr. Raeburn took Molly at once to his wife's room, and those two good people had a long talk with her. They questioned her kindly but closely about her life, and her story was such a sad one that tears soon fell from Mrs. Raeburn's eyes, while her husband turned to the window to hide his.
A little later Molly found herself again stripped of her rags, and clad (after a warm bath) in some of Bessie's clothes. Molly looked intensely grateful, but was evidently too thoroughly bewildered to say much. When she was taken to Mrs. Raeburn's parlor, she gazed about her curiously,—not in admiration, but with a strange, perplexed look, which struck Mrs. Raeburn. "What are you thinking of, my child?"
"Why, ma'am, it seems to me I remember all these grand things,—carpets and curtains and pictures,—or things just like them."
"Perhaps your mother has taken you to such houses, or you went by yourself, sometime?"
"No, lady, she never took me with her; and the servants of grand houses never let the likes of me come farther than the alley gate or the kitchen door. No, it must be I dreamed it all. Many is the lovely things I see in my dreams, ma'am. I see blue water, with vessels sailing softly by, like the great white swans in the Park, and mountains and trees, and flowers that smell like fine ladies' handkerchiefs on Broadway; and many's the time, when I am tired and footsore, I seem to sleep, as I tramp, and dream of a good, kind gentleman, who takes me up in his arms and carries me. And sometimes at night, when I am cold and hungry, I dream of a sweet lady, who parts my hair, and pats me, and kisses me, and hugs me up warm. I call those my dream father and mother."
As Mrs. Raeburn sat reflecting on the words of the child, Bessie brought a story-book to her young friend. Molly turned over its leaves sadly, saying, "I don't know how to read, miss."
"Nor write?" asked Bessie.
"No, miss."
"Nor cipher, nor find places on the map?"
"No, miss."