She was shoeless and stockingless. Her brown hair,
unkempt and ragged, hung in elf locks about her sad little face.
Certainly, as regarded size and general appearance, her name, "The
Wren," fitted her admirably.
"I don't know what to do about her," admitted Peggy; "suppose we ask
Aunt Sally? I don't want to let the gipsies have her again, and yet I
don't see how we can take her."
At the words the little creature burst into a frantic outbreak.
"Don't let those people have me back; don't," she begged; "they'll
kill me if you do."
She clung passionately to Peggy's dress. Tears came to the girl's eyes
at the pitiful manifestation of fear.
"There! there, dear," soothed Peggy, stroking the child's head,
"you shan't go back if we can help it. Come with us for the time being,
anyway."
"But we have no legal right to take her," objected Roy.
"Don't say another word," snapped the usually gentle Peggy, whose
indignation had been fully aroused, "come on. Let's get back to where
we left Aunt Sally, then we can decide what to do.
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