“Come, come,” said the police matron, “you don’t want me to tell your new friend that you have a bad temper and tell stories.”
Tiny certainly did not, and as she was now washed and dressed she went down-stairs with the police matron.
“Here she is, madam,” said the police matron very politely as she led Tiny to where the dearest bit of an old lady was sitting.
“Oh, you dear child!” exclaimed the tiny lady. “You’ve had no breakfast, have you?”
“I just got up,” whispered Tiny, not liking to let her think that the matron had been neglectful.
“Well, well,” smiled the little old lady, “we’ll soon see to that. I have my automobile outside. Good-by, Mrs. Matron.” And taking Tiny by the hand she went out.
“This is my son,” said the little old lady, as they walked up to the car. “He can drive an automobile beautifully. Shake hands with Tiny, Martin.”
“How do you do?”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Martin, lifting his tiny cap.
“Let us drive right home,” said his mother. “This dear little girl hasn’t had any breakfast.” They climbed in, and away Martin drove, down the street through the village park, past the fountain, over to the edge of the village, up to—where do you think?—right up in front of the cottage which Tiny had first seen in the little village.