That night, undressing in the dark, Nance and Molly explained to Judy what had happened.
"But are you sure she did it?" Judy demanded. "Otoyo never said so, did she?"
"No, but we are sure, anyway."
"I don't believe it," exclaimed Judy hotly. "Adele is the soul of honor. I shall never believe it unless Otoyo really tells the name."
And so Judy went off to bed entirely unreasonable about this new and fascinating friend.
"All I can say for you, Judy," said Molly, standing in Judy's bedroom doorway, "is that I hate your black hair, but do you remember that old poem we used to sing as children? I'm sure you must have known it. Most children have."
Then Molly recited in her musical clear voice:
"'I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world,
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played on the heath one day;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.
"'I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sake's sake, she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.'"
"Humph!" said Judy. "Is that the way you feel about it?"