“You mean your brothers and sisters?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Which is Molly?”
“The littlest one. She’s four, and she’s real pretty,” Elizabeth declared proudly. “She’s prettier than Annie Pearson.”
“Yes, but what do you yourself like?” Olga persisted. “What would you like to have—pretty dresses, ribbons—what?”
“I—I never thought,” was the vague reply.
Again Olga’s brows met in a frown that made the Poor Thing shrink and tremble. She brought out her necklace and tossed it into the other girl’s lap.
“Think that’s pretty?” she asked.
“O yes!” Elizabeth breathed softly. She did not touch the necklace, but gazed admiringly at the bright-coloured beads as they lay in her lap.
“You can have one like it if you want,” Olga told her.