"Why, how handy you are, child," said Mrs. Harrison. "But give her to me now, and I'll look after her." Marjorie handed the pretty burden over, and said: "But mayn't we take her out for a ride, Mrs. Harrison? I'm sure she ought to be out in the fresh air this morning." "I'll see about it later," said Totty's mother, and then she went into the house with her hostess, and the girls ran away to play. But an hour later, Mrs. Maynard called Marjorie, and said she might take the baby for a ride. Gleefully, Marjorie and Gladys ran into the house. They helped arrange Miss Totty's coat and cap, and so merry were they that the baby laughed and crowed, and made friends at once. "How she takes to you!" said Mrs. Harrison. "Sometimes she is afraid of strangers, but she seems to love you." "'Cause I love her," said Midge; "she's a sweet baby, and so good. Shall I bring her in if she cries, Mrs. Harrison?" "Yes; but she won't cry. She's more likely to go to sleep." The little lady was tucked into her carriage; white mittens on her tiny hands, and a white veil over her rosy face. "Does she need the veil?" asked Mrs. Maynard, doubtfully. "It isn't cold to-day." "No," said Mrs. Harrison; "but the breeze is brisk; and she's used to a light veil. I think she'd better wear it." "How far can we go?" asked Marjorie, as the preparations were completed. "Stay in the yard, mostly," said her mother. "If you go out in the street, don't go more than two blocks away." "All right, we won't," said Marjorie. "Come on, Glad." The two little girls started off with the baby-carriage. "She's a careful child," said Mrs. Harrison, as she noticed Marjorie turn a corner with precision. "Yes," said Mrs. Maynard. "And she's devoted to children. You need have no fear of Totty." "Oh, I haven't," said Mrs. Harrison, and then the two friends returned to the house, and sat down for a long chat. The girls had a fine time with the baby. They rolled the carriage carefully, pausing now and then to present their little guest with a bright autumn leaf, or a big horse-chestnut, which they picked up from the ground. "Let's pretend she's an infant princess, and we're kidnapping her," said Marjorie. "All right; what's her name?" "Princess Petronella," said Marjorie, promptly, using a favorite name of hers. "I don't think much of that," said Gladys; "I like Ermyntrude." "Both, then," said Marjorie; for this was a way they often settled their differences. "Her name is Princess Ermyntrude Petronella; and we call her Ermyn Pet for short." "But we ought to call her Princess," objected Gladys. "Well, we will. But remember we're kidnapping her for a great reward. Hist! Some one cometh!" They hustled the carriage behind a great pine-tree, in pretended fear of a pursuer, though no one was in sight. "How much shall we charge for ransom?" asked Gladys, in the hollow voice that they always used in their make-believe games.