She was so absorbed that she did not hear Mr.
John come in; and he was close by her when she looked up and saw his
face--not the genial, welcoming look she had been in the habit of
meeting since he became her friend, but one of grave disapproval.
"I am ashamed of you, Mollie," he said. "Boys of your age don't pet
babies in that way."
Mollie dropped it--she hardly knew whether on the floor or the
stove--and flew. When she got home, she ran into the little back room
that used to be her play-room. She was all ready for a good cry, and
she closed the door. Then she thought, what if Mr. John were to see
her crying like a girl-baby!--and she marched to the window, and
through the dimness in her eyes tried to see something cheering. Her
nature was very social, and her need of companionship great at that
moment; so she turned to the friend who had been brother, sister and
child to her through most of her little girlhood--her big doll Helena,
who sat in a chair in the corner beholding her agitation with fixed,
compassionless gaze.
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