her plump cheeks, and a roguish smile in the corner of her eyes that
made it a hardship not to take her up in one's lap and hug her at
sight. In her frock of red-and-white calico she was a fresh and
charming picture, with all the grace of movement and the sweet shyness
of a young fawn.

The policeman had found them sitting on a big trunk in the Grand
Central Station, waiting patiently for something or somebody that
didn't come. When he had let them sit until he thought the child ought
to be in bed, he took them into the police station in the depot, and
there an effort was made to find out who and what they were. It was
not an easy matter. Neither could speak English. They knew a few
words of French, however, and between that and a note the old woman
had in her pocket the general outline of the trouble was gathered.
They were of the Canaghwaga tribe of Iroquois, domiciled in the St.
Regis reservation across the Canadian border, and had come down to
sell a trunkful of beads, and things worked with beads. Some one was
to meet them, but had failed to come, and these two, to whom the
trackless wilderness was as an open book, were lost in the city of ten
thousand homes.

The matron made them understand by signs that two of the nine white
beds in the nursery were for them, and they turned right in, humbly
and silently thankful. The little girl had carried up with her, hugged
very close under her arm, a doll that was a real ethnological study.
It was a faithful rendering of the Indian pappoose, whittled out of a
chunk of wood, with two staring glass beads for eyes, and strapped to
a board the way Indian babies are, under a coverlet of very gaudy
blue. It was a marvellous doll baby, and its nurse was mighty proud of
it. She didn't let it go when she went to bed. It slept with her, and
got up to play with her as soon as the first ray of daylight peeped in
over the tall roofs.

The morning brought visitors, who admired the doll, chirruped to the
little girl, and tried to talk with her grandmother, for that they
made her out to be. To most questions she simply answered by shaking
her head and holding out her credentials. There were two letters: one
to the conductor of the train from Montreal, asking him to see that
they got through all right; the other, a memorandum, for her own
benefit apparently, recounting the number of hearts, crosses, and
other treasures she had in her trunk. It was from those she had left
behind at the