Miss Drayton explained the purpose of her visit.  “I understand you have several children,” she said.

“Only seven, lady,” said Mrs. Callahan.  “Peggy and John Edward and Elmore and Susie and Lois and Bud and the baby.”

“Ah!  Only seven!  And their ages?”

“Peggy she’s near on ’leven and the baby’s a year old this last gone November and the others are scattered ’long between,” explained Mrs. Callahan.

“And what—­” Miss Drayton smiled back at Lois and Bud and the baby—­“must I tell Santa Claus to bring you for Christmas, if I happen to see him?”

“A doll, lady, please,” answered Mrs. Callahan, eagerly, “a gre’t big doll—­big as that baby—­pretty as a picture—­open-and-shut eyes—­real hair and curly.  Lady, they’d rather have a real elegant doll than anything in the world.”

“Oh, but not the boys,” protested Miss Drayton.

“Yessum—­boys and girls and pa and me—­all of us,” insisted Mrs. Callahan.  “Lump us so as to make it splendiferous.  Oh, bless you, ’tain’t for us.  It’s for the little girl that lent us the loan of her doll to get Lois to take her medicine.  And the doll got ruint.  Miss Margery—­that’s the Charity lady—­she’s awful cross sometimes—­said we shouldn’t buy a doll with the wages.  But she couldn’t fault a present.  I never see a child love a doll like she did that Honey-Sweet.”

“Honey-Sweet!” exclaimed Miss Drayton.

“Yessum, lady.  Wasn’t that a funny name for a doll?  It was the purtiest rag baby I ever see.”

“A rag baby, named Honey-Sweet!” repeated Miss Drayton.  “Was the little girl—­what was her name?”

“Anne.  Anne Hartman.  She’s niece to Miss Hartman, the head lady of the Charity.”

“Oh!” Could this be her little Anne?  Or was there another child named Anne with another rag doll named Honey-Sweet?  Anne Hartman?  And her Anne had no aunt Miss Hartman.  It was queer, very queer, and puzzling.  “What kind of looking child is Anne Hartman?” Miss Drayton asked.

“She’s a little girl,” answered Mrs. Callahan.  “Tall as my Peggy, but slimmer.  Not pretty.—­Well, I dunno.  She’s beautiful, times when she’s happy-looking.  She’s got a perky little nose and long, twinkly eyes.  Molasses-candy-colored hair.  And her mouth—­Peggy says it’s like one of our red rosebuds when they begin to open.”

Ah!  Whatever name and kinswoman she had now, that was Anne.

“Where does she live?” inquired Miss Drayton, eagerly.

“At the corner of Fairview Avenue, in the big old house that’s turned into flats.  Was the doll too much to ask, lady?” asked Mrs. Callahan, as Miss Drayton rose to go.

“No, oh, no, indeed!  You shall have the doll, and things for all the children besides,” said Miss Drayton.  “Good-morning, Mrs. Callahan.  George, drive down Fairview Avenue.  Drive fast.  I’ll tell you where to stop.”

There was no one named Anne Hartman in that building, the janitor informed her.  A little girl named Anne?  Perhaps she meant Anne Lewis, that lived here with her cousin, Miss Dorcas Read.  The top apartment.  She was not at home now, he knew.  She came from school about two o’clock.  No, her cousin was not at home either.  She was a government clerk and never came in before five.