They were inside the door now, and the policeman rapped three times on the tiny table. Out came the police matron. Tiny thought she looked rather severe.
“Matron,” said the policeman, “I found this little girl on one of the park benches. She cannot tell me where she lives—she says she’s lost and that her last name is Girl—Tiny Girl. You know there is no family of the name of Girl in this whole town. Put her to sleep in a bed and if anything turns up to-night to show who she is, I’ll let you know. In the morning we’ll investigate. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Officer,” said the police matron.
“Come,” she said to Tiny, “let me wash you and comb your hair, and give you some bread and milk. I’m certainly sorry such a little girl should be a runaway. Your clothes show you have a careful mother.”
“I didn’t run away,” sobbed Tiny; “I tell you I didn’t!”
“How did you come here, then?” asked the matron, stopping combing her hair.
“I was a big, real girl,” said Tiny, “and—and I was walking in the woods, with my mother’s permission, when a bird flew ahead of me and he beckoned me to come on. I wandered and wandered and I came to this place. I stepped on the walk, and—and—and—I—melted into the tiny little thing I am—so there! How I wish I had my mother——”
“Oh, what a story! What an awful story!” cried the police matron. “Stop right away! We don’t allow children to tell lies here!”
“It’s not a story,” began Tiny, but the police matron dragged her to a tiny bedroom, and undressed her and put her to bed.
“You will have your supper in bed,” said she, “then I’ll be sure of where you are!” And she brought a bowl no bigger than a cherry-stone full of bread and milk for Tiny’s supper.