to go. They had once or twice spoken rather shyly to each
other, and she thought Gladys's golden curls perfectly beautiful.

"Would you like to come upstairs and see my dolls, or shall we go down
to the reception room?" Gladys asked, adding, "My Uncle Jo owns this
house, and he lets me go where I please."

"I'd like to see the dolls," Frances said, much impressed by the uncle
who owned a hotel.

Her companion led the way to a room where a lady in an elaborate
house-gown sat in an arm-chair reading. "Mamma, I have brought Frances
to see my dolls," she announced.

"How do you do, Frances.-- Very well, Gladys, but I don't want you to
worry me. You must play in the other room." Mrs. Bowen spoke in a
languid tone, and returned to her book, but she looked up again to say,
"That is a pretty dress you have on, Frances."

The child looked down at the red challis she wore, not knowing what
reply to make.

"But you are stylish, as Gladys is, I am thankful to say," the lady
continued. "You look well together, you are dark and she so fair."

"Come on," Gladys called impatiently from the door, and Frances
followed, feeling that she ought to have said something to Mrs. Bowen.

"I'll show you Marguerite first; she's my handsomest doll. Uncle Jo gave
her to me, and she cost twenty-five dollars."

Frances caught her breath at the idea of such a doll, but was a little
disappointed when her hostess took from a drawer a fine lady, whose hair
was done up in a French twist, and whose silk gown was made with a
train. She was certainly very elegant, however, and her muff and collar
were _sure enough_ sealskin, as Gladys explained.

"She is beautiful, but I believe I like little girl dolls best," Frances
said.

Gladys brought out others of all varieties and sizes, and while her
visitor examined them, she herself talked on without a pause.

"Where did you get your name?" she asked.

Frances, who was adjusting a baby's cap, replied that she was named for
her great-grandmother.

"Are you? How funny! Mamma named me for a lady in a book--Gladys
Isabel. She doesn't like common names."

Frances wondered if Gladys thought her name common, and for a moment she
wished she had been called something more romantic.

"There is a girl who lives here in the winter," continued the
chatterbox, "whose name is Mathilde. Isn't that funny? It's French--and
she has the loveliest clothes! I wish you could see her--she hasn't come
yet. And just thin