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“My name is not sissy. It’s Josephine Smith. I want my dolly. I cannot go to sleep without her. Her name is Rudanthy. Fetch me Rudanthy, boy.”

Bob was the most familiar object she had yet seen. He might have come from the big hotel where she and mamma had taken their meals. Her mother’s cottage had been close by, and sometimes of a morning a waiter had brought their breakfast across to them. That waiter was a favorite, and in this dimness she fancied he had appeared before her.

“Do you live at the ‘Florence,’ boy?” she asked.

“No, missy, but my brother does,” he answered.

“Ah! Fetch me Rudanthy, please.”

After much rummaging, and some annoyance to a lady who now occupied the upper berth, the doll was found and restored. But by this time Josephine was wide awake and disposed to ask questions.

“What’s all the curtains hung in a row for, Bob?”

“To hide the berths, missy. I guess you’d better not talk now.”

“No, I won’t. What you doing now, Bob?” she continued.

“Making up the section across from yours, missy. Best go to sleep,” advised the man.