"This is Eloise Durant, girls," said Miss Pond, who was incurably sentimental and kind to orphans. "She's feeling a little homesick now and I know you will all try to make her happy. You'll take charge of her, won't you, Sally dear?"
"Yes, Miss Pond," Sally answered automatically, but her arms were already yearning to gather the little bundle of elegance and tears and homesickness.
"And Sally," Miss Pond said nervously, lowering her voice in the false hope that the weeping child might not hear her, "Mrs. Stone says her hair must be washed and then braided, like the other children's. Eloise tells us it isn't naturally curly, that her mother did it up on kid curlers every night. Her aunt's been doing it for her since her mother--died."
"I don't want to be an orphan," the newcomer protested passionately, a white-slippered foot flying out suddenly and kicking Miss Pond on the shin.
It was then that Sally took charge. She knelt, regardless of frantic, kicking little feet, and put her arms about Eloise Durant. She began to whisper to the terror-stricken child, and Miss Pond scurried away, her kind eyes brimming with tears, her kind heart swelling with impractical plans for finding luxurious homes and incredibly kind foster parents for all the orphans in the asylum--but especially for those with golden curly hair and blue eyes. For Miss Pond was a born "adopter," with all the typical adopter's prejudices and preferences.
When scarcely two minutes after the noon dinner bell had clanged deafeningly, hundreds of little girls and big girls in faded blue and white gingham came tumbling from every direction, to halt and form a decorous procession just outside the dining hall doors, Sally and her new little charge were among them. But only the sharp eyes of the other orphans could have detected that the child who clung forlornly to Sally's hand was a newcomer. The golden curls had disappeared, and in their place were two short yellow braids, the ends tied with bits of old shoe-string. The small face, scrubbed clean of its powder and rouge, was as pale as Sally's. And instead of lace-trimmed pink crepe de chine, silk socks and white kid slippers, Eloise was clad, like every other orphan, in a skimpy gingham frock, coarse black stockings and heavy black shoes.