“My name’s Henrietta. They call me Hen. You needn’t mind gushin’ over me. I know how you feel. I’d feel just the same if I wore your clo’es and you wore mine.”
“By ginger!” exclaimed Burd Alling, under his breath. “There is philosophy for you.”
But Jessie felt hurt that Amy should have spoken so thoughtlessly about the strange child. She took Henrietta’s grimy hand and led the freckled girl to the side steps where they could sit down.
“Now tell me about Bertha and why you are 45 looking for her along Bonwit Boulevard,” said Jessie.
“Do you wear these pants all the time?” asked Henrietta, suddenly, smoothing Jessie’s overalls. “I believe I’d like to wear ’em, too. They are something like little Billy Foley’s rompers.”
“I don’t wear them all the time,” said Jessie, patiently. “But about Bertha?”
“She’s my cousin. She lived with us before Mom died. She went away to work. Something happened there where she worked. I guess I don’t know what it was. But Bertha wrote to me—I can read written letters,” added the child proudly. “Bertha said she was coming out to see me this week. And she didn’t come.”
“But why should you think––”
“Lemme tell you,” said Henrietta eagerly. “That woman that hired Bertha came to Foleys day before yesterday trying to find Bertha. She said Bertha’d run away from her. But Bertha had a right to run away. Didn’t she?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. Unless the woman had adopted her, or something,” confessed Jessie, rather puzzled.