“I ain’t stole nothin’,” she declared, indignantly. “How dare you say I stole!” “Oh, we didn’t, we didn’t!” protested Dulcie and Molly both together. “We never thought of such a thing, did we, Paul?” “Of course not,” said Paul; “she doesn’t understand. We don’t think you stole, Rosy, we think perhaps somebody stole you. People do get stolen sometimes, at least they do in books, and there was Charlie Ross.” “Yes, that’s it,” chimed in Dulcie. “In books the stolen children almost always have blue eyes and golden hair, just like yours. That’s why we thought you might be one, and we wanted to talk to you about it. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” “I don’t mind,” said Rosy, who was beginning to look very much puzzled, “but I ain’t never stole nothin’, I can tell you that. A girl on our block she got took up by the cops for stealin’ apples out of a cart, but I ain’t never stole a thing, honest I ain’t.” “We’re quite sure you never did,” soothed Dulcie. “Stolen children are always very good. Do you remember anything that happened when you were very little, almost a baby, you know?” “Oh, I can tell you about that,” said Rosy, her face brightening. “We lived on Rivington Street, and Dad sold shoe-strings, and Jim and me sold matches. Jim he sells matches yet, but I don’t. Ma takes the baby round when she begs. Is that all ye wants to know, ’cause I ought to be gettin’ back to me crossin’?” “We’d like to find out a little more, if you don’t mind,” said Dulcie. “You see, you may have been stolen before you were old enough to remember, or perhaps you were very ill, and lost your memory, like Marjorie in ‘Marjorie’s Quest.’ Were you ever very ill?” “I got run over onect,” replied Rosy, not without a touch of pride in the recollection. “I was took to the ’orspittle. It was nice in the ’orspittle; I liked it.” “I know,” said Dulcie, comprehendingly. “Did kind ladies bend over you, and speak very gently, and give you nice things to eat?” “Sure; them was the nusses. One of ’em was awful pretty. Jim said he’d like to get run over, too, so he could go to the ’orspittle. He did try onect, but the cop catched him, and told him if he ever done it again, he’d get took up.” “How old are you?” demanded Paul, who had no intention of leaving all the glory of finding a stolen child to Dulcie. “I dunno jist. Maybe I’m eight, and maybe I’m nine. Ma says she disremembers.” “That settles it,” cried Paul, triumphantly. “Of course she’s been stolen. People always know how old they are, unless there’s something queer about them.” Dulcie’s face brightened. To tell the truth, she had been growing a little sceptical as to whether there was, after all, anything particularly “queer” about Rosy Finnegan. Paul’s conviction revived her hopes.