sing more or
less--and tell stories, or read aloud; and I most always go dressed up
in some sort of a fancy costume 'cause I can't seem to find any other
thing to do that astonishes sick people so much and makes them sit up
so bravely and look so shiny. And really, it isn't such dreadfully
hard work to do, because everything fits together so well. The short
skirts, for instance, that turn me into such a jolly prattling
great-grandchild for the poor old gentleman, make me just a perfectly
rational, contemporaneous-looking play-mate for the small Cambridge
girl. I'm so very, very little!"

"Only, of course," she finished wryly; "only, of course, it costs such
a horrid big lot for costumes and carriages and things. That's what's
'busted' me, as the boys say. And then, of course, I'm most dreadfully
sleepy all the day times when I ought to be writing nice things for my
Serial-Letter Co. business. And then one day last week--" the vivid
red lips twisted oddly at one corner. "One night last week they sent
me word from Cambridge that the little, little girl was going to
die--and was calling and calling for the 'Gray-Plush Squirrel Lady'.
So I hired a big gray squirrel coat from a furrier whom I know, and I
ripped up my muff and made me the very best sort of a hot, gray,
smothery face that I could--and I went out to Cambridge and sat three
hours on the footboard of a bed, cracking jokes--and nuts--to beguile
a little child's death-pain. And somehow it broke my heart--or my
spirit--or something. Somehow I think I could have stood it better
with my own skin face! Anyway the little girl doesn't need me any
more. Anyway, it doesn't matter if someone did need me!... I tell you
I'm 'broke'! I tell you I haven't got one single solitary more thing
to give! It isn't just my pocket-book that's empty: it's my head
that's spent, too! It's my heart that's altogether stripped! _And I'm
going to run away! Yes, I am!_"

Jumping to her feet she stood there for an instant all out of breath,
as though just the mere fancy thought of running away had almost
exhausted her. Then suddenly she began to laugh.

"I'm so tired of making up things," she confessed; "why, I'm so tired
of making up grandfathers, I'm so tired of making up pirates, I'm so
tired of making-up lovers--that I actually cherish the bill collector
as the only real, genuine acquaintance whom I have in Boston.
Certainly there's no slightest trace of pretence about him!... Excuse
me