She was a jolly little girl of ten, a year younger than Hazel, with plump arms and legs and a sturdy body. Her crinkly hair was tied with a bright red ribbon, and she wore a gay bandanna about her neck. Her black eyes shone with good will. “How do you do, Charity?” Hazel said, a little hesitatingly. She liked this new neighbor and had played with her the rare afternoons that she had been allowed on the street; but she knew her mother scarcely approved of Charity. But then her mother did not approve of any of the girls and boys on Hammond Street and one must play with some one. “Your mother’s out,” said Charity. “I know, for I saw her go. Where you been all day, Hazel?” “Here at home,” Hazel answered. “I’ve got a sore throat, and I’m not allowed to go out, and there’s nothing to do in this poky place.” “Let’s play,” said Charity, “you shut your eyes and I’ll hide.” “Pooh,” Hazel replied contemptuously, “you know, Charity, there isn’t a single place here big enough for a cat to hide in.” “Well, let’s, let’s,” Charity looked about for inspiration, and her glance fell on the doll in the adjoining room, “let’s play house.” “No, you would just beat the baby. Let’s play a new game, something brand new that we never played before.” Charity began jumping about on one foot, and on into the little parlor, but she had no suggestion to offer. Hazel followed her and as her eye fell on the family Bible, her face lighted with excitement. “I know,” she declared, “let’s play a Bible game. Let’s act a Bible story the way we act history at school.” Charity stood on her two feet. “George Washington?” she asked. “No, not George Washington, but like that. A Bible story. We can’t be Joseph and his Brethren,” Hazel went on musing, “there’re too many of them. I don’t like Jacob--” “I’ll be King Solomon,” Charity exclaimed quite suddenly. She sat in the arm chair and held herself erect. Taking her bandanna she wreathed it in a turban about her head. “That’s splendid, Charity,” Hazel said heartily. “That’s your crown and you’re sitting on your throne. Now who shall I be?” “You? Why, of course, you’ll be the Queen of Sheba.” Hazel laughed gleefully. “I’ll be a real queen, won’t I? What’ll I do, Charity?” Her friend’s knowledge of Bible history was evidently greater than her own. “You ask me questions,” Charity explained, “all sorts of questions, and I answer them.” “But what do I wear?” “Let me recollect.” Charity shut her eyes to think the harder. “The Queen of Sheba she come to Jerusalem, with, with a very great _train_. You must wear a train, Hazel.” “There isn’t a thing with a train here,” Hazel replied mournfully. Looking into the kitchen her eyes fell upon the laundry basket with the pink dress on top. “I could borrow Mrs. Hollingsworth’s tea gown,” she said.