THE STOLEN CHILD
“It’s stopped snowing, and Grandma says we may go out and play in the
Square,” announced Paul, appearing at the nursery door, one afternoon a
few days later. “Daisy and Maud can’t go out on account of their colds,
but Dulcie and Molly can.”
“All right; I’ll come in a minute, just as soon as I finish my
letter,” said Dulcie. Molly--who was preparing her lessons for Miss
Hammond--threw down her geography, and sprang to her feet.
“I love going out in the snow,” she cried, joyfully, “only I wish we
had a sled. The Van Arsdale girls, across the way, have one and I saw
them hitching on behind a big sleigh, a little while ago, but Grandma
says it isn’t lady-like to hitch on to sleighs, and, anyway, we haven’t
got a sled.”
“We have great times in the Public Gardens at home,” said Paul. “Some
boys I know built a snow fort last winter, and we used to have regular
battles. Mother wasn’t going to let me play with them at first; she’s
always so afraid I’ll take cold, but Father made her, and it was great
fun. Hurry up with your old letter, Dulcie. I’m so afraid Mother
may change her mind, and say I can’t go out in the dampness. Are you
writing to your father?”
“No, she isn’t,” said Daisy; “she’s writing to Miss Leslie.”
“Who’s Miss Leslie?”
“A lovely young lady we know. She lives in California, and we only saw
her once, but she asked us to write to her. She and Uncle Stephen took
us to ‘The Pirates of Penzance.’”
“Is her first name Florence?” Paul inquired.
“Why, yes it is. How did you know?”
“I heard Grandma and Aunt Kate talking about her, when I was doing my
French in Mother’s room, the other day.”
“I didn’t know they knew her,” said Daisy, looking very much surprised.
“What were they saying about her?”
“I don’t remember, I wasn’t paying much attention, but I think she’s
going to marry somebody. I was just beginning to listen when Grandma
coughed, and they stopped talking.”
By this time Dulcie had finished her letter, and all the children were
looking much interested.
“It must be Uncle Stephen,” said Dulcie. “Perhaps he told them that
night before we came down-stairs. Oh, I do hope it is Uncle Stephen. It
would be so lovely to have Miss Leslie for an aunt.”
“It wouldn’t do us much good if they lived away off in California,”
said Daisy, “but then they might come home sometimes, and invite us for
a visit.”
“It’s too bad you and Maud can’t go out,” remarked Paul, regarding
Daisy sympathetically, as Dulcie and Molly went to the closet for their
ulsters and rubber boots. “Don’t you suppose Grandma would let you if
you teased?”
“No indeed she wouldn’t,” laughed Daisy. “You don’t know Grandma very
well if you think that. But we don’t mind staying in the house, do we,
Maud?”
“Not a bit,” said Maud, looking important and mysterious. “We’re going
to do something very interesting while you’re out.”
“What are you going to do?” inquired Paul, curiously.
“I can’t tell; it’s a secret. It was my secret first, but we all know
it now.”
“I think you might tell me,” said Paul, beginning to look offended. “It
isn’t polite to have secrets from your company.”
Maud looked troubled, but Daisy hastened to intervene.
“Girls have lots of secrets they don’t tell boys,” she said,
pleasantly. “If you and some other boys had a secret, you wouldn’t tell
us, you know you wouldn’t.”
“Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn’t. The trouble about telling girls
things is they never can keep them to themselves.”
“How about boys keeping things to themselves?” asked Daisy, at which
seemingly innocent question Paul grew suddenly red, and no more was
said on the subject of secrets.
Mrs. Chester was waiting for them in the hall. She was looking rather
worried.
“Now, Paul, darling,” she began anxiously, as her small son came
running down-stairs, followed by Dulcie and Molly, “you will promise
Mother to be very careful about those dreadful crossings, won’t you?
Take good care of him, Dulcie, and don’t let him attempt to cross while
there is anything in sight.”
“I’ll take care of him,” promised Dulcie, rather proud of the charge,
and just then Grandma’s stern voice was heard from the head of the
stairs.
“Don’t be silly, Julia. Those children are quite capable of taking care
of themselves. They are none of them babies. One would think to hear
you talk that you considered that boy of yours either an infant or an
idiot.”
“Grandma is rather a sensible old lady, even if she does scold,”
remarked Paul, as they ran down the steps. “Mother wouldn’t have let me
go out at all if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Grandma doesn’t believe in people making a fuss about things,” was
Dulcie’s rather guarded reply, and Molly added, doubtfully:
“I think she’s a little kinder to you than she is to us, but then you
are her truly grandchild, and we’re only steps.”
Fifth Avenue was a pretty sight that frosty afternoon. Children who
live in New York in the twentieth century know little of the pleasures
of winter, but in 1880 life was quite different. There were no “snow
wagons” in those days, and the snow lay where it fell until a thaw
came and melted it. Small boys and girls earned pennies by sweeping
the crossings, and after a snowstorm every one who could manage to
secure a sleigh did so, and the consequence was that Fifth Avenue,
from Washington Square to Central Park, was lined with sleighs of
every description, from the small one-horse cutter to the big stage
sleigh, drawn by four horses. On this February afternoon the scene was
a particularly gay one. The sun had come out, and the trees in the
Square were all glittering with snow, while the constant tinkle of
sleigh-bells filled the frosty air.
“I wish we could have an adventure,” said Molly, as they paused at the
corner, waiting for an opportunity to cross. “I don’t feel a bit like
just staying in the Square, and watching other people having fun with
their sleds. Oh, look, Dulcie; there’s the stolen child. She’s sweeping
the crossing.”
“What stolen child?” demanded Paul, eagerly.
“That ragged little girl with the broom,” said Molly. “Generally she
has a basket, and goes to the basement doors to ask for things to eat.”
“How do you know she’s been stolen? Did she tell you so?”
“No, we’ve never spoken to her, but we think she must have been. She’s
got blue eyes and golden hair, just like all the stolen children in
books, and once we saw her crying. It was when the Van Arsdales’ cook
slammed the basement gate in her face. We were dreadfully sorry, but we
couldn’t do anything about it. Grandma never lets Bridget give anything
to beggars. Dulcie has made up some wonderful stories about the stolen
child.”
“I don’t see how you can be sure she’s been stolen,” said Paul,
sceptically. “Any girl might cry if she was hungry and a cook slammed a
gate in her face. I don’t see why you don’t speak to her and find out.”
“We never had a chance to speak to her,” said Dulcie. “We’ve only seen
her from the window.”
“You can speak to her now,” said Paul, who was fond of getting to the
bottom of things. “She’s right here, and we’re right here, too. If she
really has been stolen, and we can find her family, we may get a big
reward. You know they offered a tremendous reward for Charlie Ross.
This one’s only a girl, so perhaps they wouldn’t pay as much for her,
but families are always awfully glad to get back a stolen child. I’ve
just been reading about one in a French book, and the father built a
hospital, to show his gratitude. Come on, let’s speak to the little
girl right away.”
Dulcie’s heart beat rather fast, and Molly was conscious of a little
thrill of excitement, as they approached the small crossing-sweeper.
“She’s rather dirty,” whispered Molly. “I thought stolen children were
always very clean.”
“Not always,” Dulcie reassured her. “They can’t help being dirty
sometimes, when there isn’t any place to wash. She’d be very pretty if
her face was clean, and her hair wasn’t so tangled.”
As the three children paused at the crossing, “the stolen child” looked
up and held out a small dirty hand.
“Gimme a penny,” she began, in the whining tone of the professional
beggar.
“I’m sorry,” said Dulcie, kindly, “we’d like to give you some money,
but we haven’t any with us. Would you mind telling us your name?”
“Rosy Finnegan,” answered the crossing-sweeper, promptly. Dulcie was
deeply impressed.
“Rosy is a beautiful name,” she said, “but Finnegan--are you sure your
name really is Finnegan?”
“The stolen child” nodded.
“Me name’s Finnegan,” she said, decidedly. “Say, ain’t none of yous got
a penny?”
“I’m afraid we haven’t,” Dulcie admitted reluctantly, “but we’d like
to have a little talk with you. Couldn’t you stop sweeping for a little
while? We’d like to have you come into the park with us.”
Rosy Finnegan looked very much surprised. Little girls who lived on
Washington Square were not in the habit of addressing her in such a
friendly manner. But she was of a sociable disposition, and quite ready
for an adventure of any kind. So, gathering her broom under her arm,
she prepared to follow her new acquaintances.
“Now we can talk better,” said Dulcie, when they had reached the
comparative quiet of the little park. “I’m afraid it’s too cold to sit
down, so we’ll have to keep walking while we talk. My name is Dulcie
Winslow, and this is my sister Molly. This boy is Paul Chester, and
he’s a sort of cousin of ours. My sister and I have been interested in
you all winter, and we want to ask you some questions. You say your
first name is Rosy. That’s short for Rose, of course. I don’t believe
many beg--I mean many little girls like you, are named Rose. It’s quite
a book name.”
“Is it?” said Rosy, looking interested. “I didn’t never read no books.
Me name’s Rosy Finnegan.”
“You think it’s Finnegan,” said Dulcie, gently, “but perhaps it’s
something else. Do you remember your mother?”
“Sure,” responded Rosy Finnegan, stopping short in her astonishment;
“me mother’s home.”
Dulcie was conscious of a sensation of disappointment at this reply,
but Paul was not so easily daunted.
“Does she beat you?” he inquired, abruptly.
Rosy grinned.
“I guess she do, sometimes,” she admitted. Dulcie felt her spirits
rising again.
“I hope she isn’t very cruel,” she said, sympathetically. “Perhaps she
isn’t really your own mother.”
“She’s me mother all right,” persisted Rosy. “What makes you say she
ain’t?”
“Why--why,” faltered Dulcie, finding some difficulty in explaining, “we
don’t know, of course, but we think perhaps you may have been stolen.”
“The stolen child’s” dirty little face grew suddenly very red.
“I ain’t stole nothin’,” she declared, indignantly. “How dare you say I
stole!”
“Oh, we didn’t, we didn’t!” protested Dulcie and Molly both together.
“We never thought of such a thing, did we, Paul?”
“Of course not,” said Paul; “she doesn’t understand. We don’t think you
stole, Rosy, we think perhaps somebody stole you. People do get stolen
sometimes, at least they do in books, and there was Charlie Ross.”
“Yes, that’s it,” chimed in Dulcie. “In books the stolen children
almost always have blue eyes and golden hair, just like yours. That’s
why we thought you might be one, and we wanted to talk to you about it.
Do you mind if we ask you some questions?”
“I don’t mind,” said Rosy, who was beginning to look very much puzzled,
“but I ain’t never stole nothin’, I can tell you that. A girl on our
block she got took up by the cops for stealin’ apples out of a cart,
but I ain’t never stole a thing, honest I ain’t.”
“We’re quite sure you never did,” soothed Dulcie. “Stolen children are
always very good. Do you remember anything that happened when you were
very little, almost a baby, you know?”
“Oh, I can tell you about that,” said Rosy, her face brightening. “We
lived on Rivington Street, and Dad sold shoe-strings, and Jim and me
sold matches. Jim he sells matches yet, but I don’t. Ma takes the baby
round when she begs. Is that all ye wants to know, ’cause I ought to be
gettin’ back to me crossin’?”
“We’d like to find out a little more, if you don’t mind,” said Dulcie.
“You see, you may have been stolen before you were old enough to
remember, or perhaps you were very ill, and lost your memory, like
Marjorie in ‘Marjorie’s Quest.’ Were you ever very ill?”
“I got run over onect,” replied Rosy, not without a touch of pride in
the recollection. “I was took to the ’orspittle. It was nice in the
’orspittle; I liked it.”
“I know,” said Dulcie, comprehendingly. “Did kind ladies bend over you,
and speak very gently, and give you nice things to eat?”
“Sure; them was the nusses. One of ’em was awful pretty. Jim said he’d
like to get run over, too, so he could go to the ’orspittle. He did try
onect, but the cop catched him, and told him if he ever done it again,
he’d get took up.”
“How old are you?” demanded Paul, who had no intention of leaving all
the glory of finding a stolen child to Dulcie.
“I dunno jist. Maybe I’m eight, and maybe I’m nine. Ma says she
disremembers.”
“That settles it,” cried Paul, triumphantly. “Of course she’s been
stolen. People always know how old they are, unless there’s something
queer about them.”
Dulcie’s face brightened. To tell the truth, she had been growing
a little sceptical as to whether there was, after all, anything
particularly “queer” about Rosy Finnegan. Paul’s conviction revived her
hopes.
“I guess she must be stolen,” she said, “if her mother doesn’t know how
old she is. Rosy, would you like to find your real family, and go to
live in a beautiful home, where you would have lovely clothes to wear,
and everybody would love you very much?”
“Sure I would; I’d like it first rate. When can I go?”
“Oh, not till you can remember your past. Try to think very hard, and
perhaps your memory will begin to come back. Don’t you remember any
little prayer or hymn, or--or anything like that? Stolen children in
books generally do.”
“They sings hymns at the mission,” said Rosy. “I went to the mission
onect, but they said I couldn’t come again if I didn’t wash, so I
didn’t go no more.”
“But--but don’t you like to be clean?” gasped Dulcie. In her
experience, stolen children always longed for cleanliness, as well as
other blessings of life.
“I hate washin’,” returned Rosy, with so much sincerity in her tone
that it was impossible to doubt her.
“She’s probably forgotten about taking baths,” whispered Paul. “She’ll
be all right when she’s found.”
“I don’t see how she’s ever going to be found,” said Dulcie, with a
sigh, “if she can’t remember the least little thing. I’m afraid we’ll
have to give it up.”
“Oh, I say, that’s an awful shame!” cried Paul. “Maybe she’ll begin to
remember in a few minutes.”
“Maybe I will,” said Rosy, hopefully. “I want to go to that nice place,
anyhow. Let’s come right along. It’s cold walkin’ so slow.”
Dulcie clasped her hands in dismay.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, tragically. “We’ve raised her
hopes, and we’ll have to disappoint her. Oh, I wish we hadn’t spoken to
her at all.”
“I’ll tell you what we might do,” exclaimed Molly, with a sudden
inspiration. “Get her to take us home with her, and talk to the person
she thinks is her mother. Maybe she’ll confess.”
“Oh, Molly, we couldn’t. What would Grandma and Aunt Julia say?”
“I don’t see that it matters what they say, if we are going to help
a stolen child find her family,” said Paul. “They’ll be proud of us
afterwards, especially if we get a big reward. Why, we might even be
talked about in the newspaper.”
But Dulcie was still doubtful.
“I’m sure Grandma would be very angry,” she protested, “and Aunt Julia,
too. Besides, we don’t know for sure that she ever was stolen. She says
she wasn’t.”
“I guess I made a mistake,” put in Rosy, eagerly. “I disremembered
first, but now I come to think about it, I’m pretty sure I was stole.
Anyhow, I want the nice clothes. I’ll show you the way to our tiniment.
’Tain’t far.”
“Where is it?” inquired Dulcie, still far from convinced of the wisdom
of the proceeding.
“Over on Avenue A.”
“Avenue A,” repeated Dulcie, with a shiver. “Oh, we’ve never been there
in our lives. We can’t go with her, Paul, we really can’t.”
“All right, you needn’t. I’m going, anyhow, and so’s Molly. We like to
see new places, don’t we, Molly?”
“I won’t go anywhere without Dulcie,” said Molly, loyally. “I think we
ought to go, though, Dulcie. She says she really was stolen, and it
must be our duty to help her find her own mother, even if Grandma and
Aunt Julia are angry. I’m sure Papa would want us to do our duty.”
Dulcie wavered, and Rosy, quick to seize her advantage, began to cry.
“I want to find me family, I want to find me family, I do, I do!” she
wailed, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. “I want to have pretty
clothes, and ice-cream, like in the ’orspittle.”
This was too much for Dulcie’s kind heart.
“Very well,” she said desperately, “if you both think it’s our duty, I
suppose we shall have to go. Are you sure your mother is at home, Rosy?”
Rosy nodded. She had stopped crying as suddenly as she began, and was
evidently quite as much interested in the adventure as either Molly or
Paul.
“Show us the way,” commanded Paul, and three minutes later, they had
left the safe precincts of Washington Square, and turned their faces
resolutely in the direction of the East River.