golden curls, looked hopelessly bedraggled.

“Oh, Betsy Hale!” Dicky said. “You naughty, naughty girl! How could
you drown your own children like that?”

“I were divin’ them a baff,” Betsy explained.

Betsy was a little, round butterball of a girl with great brown eyes
all tangled up in eyelashes and a little pink rosebud of a mouth,
folded over two rows of mice-teeth. She smiled deliciously up into
Maida’s face:

“I aren’t naughty, is I?” she asked.

“Naughty? You bunny-duck! Of course you are,” Maida said, giving her
a bear-hug. “I don’t see how anybody can scold her,” she whispered
to Dicky.

“Scold her! You can’t,” Dicky said disgustedly. “She’s too cute. And
then if you did scold her it wouldn’t do any good. She’s the
naughtiest baby in the neighborhood—although,” he added with pride,
“I think Delia’s going to be pretty nearly as naughty when she gets
big enough. But Betsy Hale—why, the whole street has to keep an eye
on her. Come, pick up your dollies, Betsy,” he wheedled, “they’ll
get cold if you leave them out here.”

The thought of danger to her darlings produced immediate activity on
Betsy’s part. She gathered the dolls under her cape, hugging them
close. “Her must put her dollies to bed,” she said wisely.