“She’s rather dirty,” whispered Molly. “I thought stolen children were always very clean.” “Not always,” Dulcie reassured her. “They can’t help being dirty sometimes, when there isn’t any place to wash. She’d be very pretty if her face was clean, and her hair wasn’t so tangled.” As the three children paused at the crossing, “the stolen child” looked up and held out a small dirty hand. “Gimme a penny,” she began, in the whining tone of the professional beggar. “I’m sorry,” said Dulcie, kindly, “we’d like to give you some money, but we haven’t any with us. Would you mind telling us your name?” “Rosy Finnegan,” answered the crossing-sweeper, promptly. Dulcie was deeply impressed. “Rosy is a beautiful name,” she said, “but Finnegan--are you sure your name really is Finnegan?” “The stolen child” nodded. “Me name’s Finnegan,” she said, decidedly. “Say, ain’t none of yous got a penny?” “I’m afraid we haven’t,” Dulcie admitted reluctantly, “but we’d like to have a little talk with you. Couldn’t you stop sweeping for a little while? We’d like to have you come into the park with us.” Rosy Finnegan looked very much surprised. Little girls who lived on Washington Square were not in the habit of addressing her in such a friendly manner. But she was of a sociable disposition, and quite ready for an adventure of any kind. So, gathering her broom under her arm, she prepared to follow her new acquaintances. “Now we can talk better,” said Dulcie, when they had reached the comparative quiet of the little park. “I’m afraid it’s too cold to sit down, so we’ll have to keep walking while we talk. My name is Dulcie Winslow, and this is my sister Molly. This boy is Paul Chester, and he’s a sort of cousin of ours. My sister and I have been interested in you all winter, and we want to ask you some questions. You say your first name is Rosy. That’s short for Rose, of course. I don’t believe many beg--I mean many little girls like you, are named Rose. It’s quite a book name.” “Is it?” said Rosy, looking interested. “I didn’t never read no books. Me name’s Rosy Finnegan.” “You think it’s Finnegan,” said Dulcie, gently, “but perhaps it’s something else. Do you remember your mother?” “Sure,” responded Rosy Finnegan, stopping short in her astonishment; “me mother’s home.” Dulcie was conscious of a sensation of disappointment at this reply, but Paul was not so easily daunted. “Does she beat you?” he inquired, abruptly. Rosy grinned. “I guess she do, sometimes,” she admitted. Dulcie felt her spirits rising again. “I hope she isn’t very cruel,” she said, sympathetically. “Perhaps she isn’t really your own mother.” “She’s me mother all right,” persisted Rosy. “What makes you say she ain’t?” “Why--why,” faltered Dulcie, finding some difficulty in explaining, “we don’t know, of course, but we think perhaps you may have been stolen.” “The stolen child’s” dirty little face grew suddenly very red.