“‘Dear Fellow Vigilantes:
“‘I’ve been trying desperately to write you for weeks and weeks, but you’ve no idea what the cares of a household are, especially when you have a child around.’”
“A child!” cried all the Vigilantes at once. “What child?”
Priscilla continued:
“‘But before I tell you about Virginia Winthrop Richards, I must say that the summer is being even more wonderful than Dad and I ever dreamed. I never got so well-acquainted with my own father in all my life, and he’s been a perfect darling to devote days and days to me. The bungalow is more heavenly than ever. It’s positively buried in roses and heliotrope, and you’d never know it had a chimney. You’d think that a huge geranium was growing right out of the roof. The front porch looks out upon the sea. Oh, it’s such a dark, deep, sparkly blue! And 149 when the sky is blue, too, and the sand is golden, and the white gulls skim next the water—nothing could be more beautiful in all the world! I think of you a hundred times a day, and wish that you were here. So does Dad. I’ve told him all about the Vigilantes, and he’s so interested. He says he’s thankful every day that I have such fine friends at St. Helen’s. In fact, I just know he’s more pleased with me than ever before. I think he sees there’s hope ahead, and it’s a very comforting assurance.
“‘Now I must tell you about Virginia Winthrop Richards. I know you’re consumed with curiosity. If you could see her, you’d be consumed with envy. She is seven years old and all pink and white and blue and gold. Her cheeks are just the color of wild roses, and her eyes deep blue—almost like the water—and her hair golden brown with lights in it. I dress her in pink or blue or white all the time. One day two weeks ago Dad and I went to Los Angeles to buy clothes for her. I don’t believe I ever had quite such a good time in all my life. ’Twas 150 just like shopping for one’s very own child. I put my hair up high for the occasion, and endeavored to look matronly, but I guess I failed, for when I saw a ravishing pink dress and said, “I guess it’s too small for my little girl,” the stupid clerk laughed in my face.
“‘We bought the sweetest things you ever saw! Hair-ribbons and adorable shoes and socks striped like sticks of candy and little fairy night-dresses all trimmed in lace. Then Dad bought some toys. I let him do that. He bought a doll and books and a cart and horses, for we want Virginia to be a trifle boyish, too, you see. While he was doing it, his eyes just beamed and beamed. He said he felt just as he did when I was little and he bought toys for me. When we reached home and showed the things to Virginia Winthrop Richards, I thought she’d die of happiness. Really, I didn’t know but that we’d lose her after all!
“‘But here I am dressing my child for you, and you don’t even know who she is! She wasn’t anybody but Minnie and No. 31 until three weeks 151 ago. I’ve always thought it would be a heavy cross enough to be named Minnie anyway, even though you had a respectable surname, but to be Minnie without any surname at all, and No. 31 in addition, seem to me the depths of misery. We found her in the Home for Friendless Children, and I’ll always believe that an angel led us there! Dad and I went to the city three weeks ago this very Sunday and walked by the Home. We didn’t even know ’twas there—just stumbled upon it while we were roaming around in search of adventure. Poor little 31 was sitting under a tree on the lawn holding a shingle and singing to it. I’ll never forget how she looked. Her curls were braided up tight, and tied with a shoe-string, and she was dressed in a hideous blue-checked thing, but even those drawbacks couldn’t spoil her. Dad and I just stopped and stared, and then we walked up the steps and in at the door.
“‘“Whose child is that out there on the lawn?” Dad asked the matron who greeted us at the office entrance.
“‘She was a tall, stern-looking person in a 152 shirtwaist and a high, starched collar. You just couldn’t imagine her holding a baby, or one cuddling up against her neck. She said No. 31 was nobody’s child. She had been left in an old basket on the steps six years ago. You see, she isn’t one of those children you read about with beautifully embroidered clothes and gold lockets and one thousand dollars in bills under her pillow. She didn’t have any name or notes or requests for whoever took her to call at the bank for a fortune when she was twenty-one. She was just wrapped in an old blanket and left there. But Dad and I don’t care!