“Is your throat sore?” Molly inquired, with a vivid recollection of Maud’s frequent sore throats.
“No, it isn’t sore, but there’s a lump in it. Oh, Molly, it’s awful! I was never so unhappy before in my life.”
Molly looked very much troubled.
“Is it because Grandma wouldn’t let us go down to dinner, and says we’re not to have any dessert for a week?” she questioned doubtfully.
“Oh, I don’t mind that so much. It’s horrid, of course, but I could bear it if it wasn’t for other things. Grandma says I’m a disgrace to the family, and she’s going to write Papa about it.”
“Papa won’t believe her, I know he won’t,” protested Molly. “Besides, we can write to him too, and tell what really happened. I think you were very brave to fight that boy when he was hurting Paul.”
“It was a terribly unladylike thing to do,” said Dulcie. “I don’t wonder Grandma was ashamed. Young ladies don’t fight street boys, and I’m nearly twelve. I promised Papa to take care of you all, and set a good example. And instead of that, I got you into a horrid scrape, and Paul too.” Suddenly Dulcie’s head went down on her arms, and she began to cry.
Molly was at her sister’s side in a moment.
“Don’t be so unhappy, darling, please don’t,” she pleaded, with her arms round Dulcie’s neck. “It wasn’t any more your fault than mine and Paul’s. We really thought we were doing our duty. If Rosy had been a stolen child, and we’d found her family, everybody would have been delighted. I don’t believe even Grandma would have scolded then.”
“I don’t think there are any stolen children in the world,” moaned Dulcie. “They’re just in books, and we were very silly to imagine Rosy must be one. She wasn’t even very pretty, and she was so dreadfully dirty. I don’t see why the people who write books want to put things in that aren’t true.”