numerous bald spots, the center of little radiating trails where, in
the fall, each group of children had its complicated roasting oven in
which potatoes and "weenies" were cooked.

On one August afternoon the pasture seemed deserted. It was circus day
and the children of the surrounding blocks had all by one method or
another won admission to the big tent on the hill east of the town.

Yet not quite all the children. For under one of the oak trees was a
baby carriage in which a little girl of two lay fast asleep. And far
above her, perched lightly but firmly in a swaying fork of the oak, was
a long-legged little girl of twelve. She sat where she could peer
easily down on her small sleeping sister, yet high enough to be
completely hidden from casual view. She was a thin youngster, with
short curling hair of a dusty yellow. The curly hair did not hide the
fine square head, a noble head for so small a girl, set well on the
little square shoulders. Her eyes were blue and black lashed, her nose
nondescript, her mouth large, her chin square and her little jaw line
long and pronounced. She wore a soiled sailor suit of blue galatea.
Caught in the crotch of two opposite branches was a doll almost as
large as the sleeping child below. It was a queer old-fashioned doll,
with a huge china head, that displayed brilliant black hair and eyes as
blue as those of her little mistress. The doll wore a clumsily made
sailor suit of blue calico, which evidently had been washed recently,
but not ironed. It is necessary to meet the doll properly, for she was
an intimate and important member of the little girl's family. Her name
was Florence Dombey.

A battered red book lay in Florence Dombey's lap. It was called, "With
Clive in India." It was written by G. A. Henty and told of the