“Sure; them was the nusses. One of ’em was awful pretty. Jim said he’d like to get run over, too, so he could go to the ’orspittle. He did try onect, but the cop catched him, and told him if he ever done it again, he’d get took up.”
“How old are you?” demanded Paul, who had no intention of leaving all the glory of finding a stolen child to Dulcie.
“I dunno jist. Maybe I’m eight, and maybe I’m nine. Ma says she disremembers.”
“That settles it,” cried Paul, triumphantly. “Of course she’s been stolen. People always know how old they are, unless there’s something queer about them.”
Dulcie’s face brightened. To tell the truth, she had been growing a little sceptical as to whether there was, after all, anything particularly “queer” about Rosy Finnegan. Paul’s conviction revived her hopes.
“I guess she must be stolen,” she said, “if her mother doesn’t know how old she is. Rosy, would you like to find your real family, and go to live in a beautiful home, where you would have lovely clothes to wear, and everybody would love you very much?”
“Sure I would; I’d like it first rate. When can I go?”
“Oh, not till you can remember your past. Try to think very hard, and perhaps your memory will begin to come back. Don’t you remember any little prayer or hymn, or—or anything like that? Stolen children in books generally do.”
“They sings hymns at the mission,” said Rosy. “I went to the mission onect, but they said I couldn’t come again if I didn’t wash, so I didn’t go no more.”
“But—but don’t you like to be clean?” gasped Dulcie. In her experience, stolen children always longed for cleanliness, as well as other blessings of life.