“I was only telling you I do not think you at all to blame.  Little girls like you are not expected to have judgment like grown women.  If you only do the best you know how, it is all that should be required of you.”

Dotty’s face emerged from the cloud.  She looked away down the aisle at Mrs. Lovejoy, who was patting the uninteresting baby to sleep.

“Well,” thought she, her self-esteem reviving, “I wish that woman only could know I wasn’t to blame!  I don’t believe she could have take care of that baby when she was six years old.”

“Here we are at Boston,” said Mr. Parlin.  “Is your hat tied on?  Keep close to me, and don’t be afraid of the crowd.”

Dotty was not in the least afraid.  She was not like Prudy, who, on the same journey, had clung tremblingly to her father at every change of cars.  In Dotty’s case there was more danger of her being reckless than too timid.

They went to a hotel.  Mr. Parlin’s business would detain him an hour or two, he said; after that he would take his little daughter to walk on the Common; and next morning, bright and early, they would proceed on their journey.

It was the first time Dotty had ever dined at a public house.  A bill of fare was something entirely new to her.  She wondered how it happened that the Boston printers knew what the people in that hotel were about to have for dinner.

Mr. Parlin looked with amusement at the demure little lady beside him.  Not a sign of curiosity did she betray, except to gaze around her with keen eyes, which saw everything, even to the pattern of the napkins.  Some time she would have questions to ask, but not now.

“And what would you like for dinner, Alice?”

Mr. Parlin said this as they were sipping their soup.  Dotty glanced at the small table before them, which offered scarcely anything but salt-cellars and castors, and then at the paper her father held in his hand.  She was about to reply that she would wait till the table was ready; but as there was one man seated opposite her, and another standing at the back of her chair, she merely said,—­

“I don’t know, papa.”

“A-la-mode beef; fricasseed chicken; Calcutta curry,” read her mischievous father from the bill, as fast as he could read; “macaroni; salsify; flummery; sirup of cream.  You see it is hard to make a choice, dear.  Escaloped oysters; pigeon pie postponed.”

“I’ll take some of that, papa,” broke in Dotty.

“What, dear?”

“Some of the pigeon pie ’sponed,” answered Dotty, in a low voice, determined to come to a decision of some sort.  It was not likely to make much difference what she should choose, when everything was alike wonderful and strange.

“Pigeon pie postponed,” said Mr. Parlin to the man at the back of Dotty’s chair; “turkey with oysters for me.”

The polite waiter smiled so broadly that he showed two long rows of white teeth.  It could not be Dotty who amused him.  Her conduct was all that is prim and proper.  She sat beside her papa as motionless as a waxen baby, her eyes rolling right and left, as if they were jerked by a secret wire.  It certainly could not have been Dotty.  Then what was it the man saw which was funny?