At Chicago, on a hot afternoon in early summer, two little girls got aboard the car on the Limited that was bound through to Boston. Both little girls had bobbed brown hair and brown eyes and both were going on eleven, but there all likeness between them ended.

The larger of the two little girls wore a black silk frock embroidered with amber-colored butterflies and curlicues, and black silk knickerbockers. The socks that stopped just below her sturdy brown knees were of black silk, and her black sandals had tiny buckles of onyx. She wore a hat of fine black straw, and in her arms she carried a little black vanity bag, two big books with colored pictures on their jackets, and a box tied up in white paper and gilt cord that screamed—and smelled—of chocolates.

Before her walked a solemn brown porter, laden with suitcases and handbags and hatboxes. Behind her walked a worried young woman, in a fresh blue linen suit. Thus attended the little girl passed along the aisle, with the air of a good-natured young princess, and vanished into the drawing-room at the end of the car. When the solemn-looking porter came out of the drawing-room, he was no longer solemn but smiling, and the piece of silver that he pocketed was large and round.

The smaller of the little girls had watched this progress admiringly, but without envy. She was a serious little girl, and this was her first long journey in the world. She sat very still in her seat, which was back to the engine, and she clasped a doll tight in her arms. The doll wore a neat print dress and frilled underclothes, and though the day was hot, a crocheted sweater and a cunningly made hood. The little girl herself wore a dress of pink and white checked gingham which was a little faded and a little short for her. Her hat was of white straw with a wreath of pink flowers, and her socks were white, and so were her buttoned boots. Over her arm she carried a knitted sweater coat of red, and at her feet stood a large suitcase which had seen much travel.

“Did you see the little girl in black?” she whispered to the doll, whose name was Mildred. “Do you s’pose she’s in mourning for somebody? Well, people can be just as sorry inside—we know it, don’t we, Mildred?—even if they have to wear last summer’s clothes, and they happen to be pink.”

Mildred was a very intelligent doll. She had steady blue eyes, a sweet smile, and a shock of flaxen curls. She showed her intelligence by always listening sympathetically and never speaking. So she did not let on now that she saw tears in her young mother’s eyes.

Meantime in the drawing-room the little girl in black silk had put down her books and her bag, and hung up her hat, and rung for the porter.

“I want a pillow,” she told the worried young lady who accompanied her, “and a table so I can play Canfield and—oh, yes! I want a big long drink of lemonade.”

“I’m afraid the porter won’t come till the train has started,” the young lady told her. “Can’t you read your books until then? What are they?”

The little girl resigned herself quite sweetly to going without her pillow and her table, and even her lemonade. She sat down beside her companion and showed her the books.

“This one is about Robin Hood,” she said, “but I’ve heard of him before. This other one is some book!”

“My dear!” the lady murmured in rebuke.

“I’ll say it is!” the little girl affirmed. “I read it nights in my berth till Auntie Blair switched off my light. Some book, I’ll tell the world! It’s called ‘The Prince and the Pauper.’”

And if a kind old guardian hadn’t happened to give that little girl a gorgeous copy of the beloved romance, when she left Los Angeles, and if the little girl hadn’t “eaten it up,” and dreamed of it, and lived herself into it on the long railway journey, this story, as you soon will see, would never have been written.