“We’ll ask papa, Molly. Captain Bradstreet is certainly very kind.”
“I don’t think Captain Bradstreet’s kind—I don’t think he’s kind a bit,” muttered little Miss Weezy, as the others went down-stairs. “Never ’vited me at all! Didn’t I ’vite him to my seven-years-old party, ice-cream to it too? O dear, dear, dear!”
Unloading an apronful of dolls in a heap by the trunk, offended little Weezy stole down the back staircase into the garden to confide her sorrows to Ginger, Molly’s yellow kitten.
“Captain Bradstreet said I was a nice, sweet little girl; he said it two times, he truly did. And now he’s gone and asked Kirke and Molly to go to his—to his something—oh, yes, he’s asked them, and never asked me.”
Ginger purred softly, and rubbed her head against her little mistress’s feet; but Weezy could not be comforted. What a miserable old world it was to be sure, where captains called you nice, sweet little girls, and then went and didn’t invite you to their—to their—she couldn’t quite remember what.
Grown-up people liked big boys and girls like Kirke and Molly; they didn’t like little ones like herself and Donald.
Poor little Donald, he was crying too. She heard him. What was he crying about? Weezy wondered. And where was he? He seemed a great way off, by the sound, ’most up in the sky. Why didn’t somebody find him and make him happy?
CHAPTER II
DONALD HIDES
“Weezy, Weezy, is Donald out there in the garden with you?”
This was Molly calling from the back porch.