French so fast that it was a wonder any tongue could utter the words.  The little girl of the fine frock and brown eyes was clutching to her bosom with a defiant air a large doll which the governess was trying to get from her, while the other child stood by, looking first toward one of them and then toward the other, with an expression divided between timidity and eagerness.  A big picture of a ballet-dancer with a gay frock and red shoes in a flaring advertisement on a sign-board had something to do with the trouble.  Now the girl drew nearer to the other child and danced a few steps, holding out her hand; now she cast a look over her shoulder down the hill, as if to see that her retreat were not cut off.

“Mais, c’est a moi—­it’s my doll.  I will have it,” insisted the little girl, backing away and holding it firmly; at which the governess began again almost tearing her hair in her desperation, though she ended by giving it a pat to see that it was all right.

The approach of Gordon drew her attention to him.

“Oh,” she exclaimed in desperation, “c’est epouvantable—­it ees terr-e-ble!  Dese young ladie weel give de doll to dat meeseerable creature!”

“She is not a ’meeseerable creature’!” insisted the little girl, mocking her, her brown eyes flashing.  “She danced for me, and I will give it to her—­I like her.”

“Oh, ciel!  What shall I do!  Madame weel abuse me—­weel keel me!”

“Mamma will not mind; it is my doll.  Aunt Abby gave it to me.  I can get a plenty more, and I will give it to her,” insisted the little girl again.  Then suddenly, gaining more courage, she turned quickly, and, before the governess could stop her, thrust the doll into the other child’s arms.

“Here, you shall have it.”

The governess, with a cry of rage, made a spring for the child, but too late:  the grimy little hands had clutched the doll, and turning without a word of thanks, the little creature sped down the road like a frightened animal, her ragged frock fluttering behind her.

“Why, she did not say ’Thank you’!” exclaimed the child, in a disappointed tone, looking ruefully after the retreating figure.

The governess broke out on her vehemently in French, very comically mingling her upbraidings of her charge, her abuse of the little girl, and her apprehension of “Madame.”

“Never mind; she does not know any better,” said Gordon.

The child’s face brightened at this friendly encouragement.

“She is a nasty little creature!  You shall not play with her,” cried the governess, angrily.

“She is not nasty!  I like her, and I will play with her,” declared the child, defiantly.

“What is your name?” asked the boy, much amused by such sturdiness in so small a tot.

“Lois Huntington.  What is your name?” She looked up at him with her big brown eyes.