en and shut,
a little red mouth, two little hands. Yet these foolish little people!
they will love one, while another they will not look upon. I find the
best plan is not to reason with them, but to sympathize. Later on--but
not too soon--introduce to them another doll. They will not care for
it at first, but in time they will come to take an interest in it. Of
course, it cannot make them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in
Lowther Arcadia could be as that, but still---- It is many weeks before
they forget entirely the first love.

We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A friend of mine who
plays the fiddle came down on purpose to assist. We buried her in the
hot spring sunshine, while the birds from shady nooks sang joyously of
life and love. And our chief mourner cried real tears, just for all the
world as though it were not the fate of dolls, sooner or later, to get
broken--the little fragile things, made for an hour, to be dressed and
kissed; then, paintless and stript, to be thrown aside on the nursery
floor. Poor little dolls! I wonder do they take themselves seriously,
not knowing the springs that stir their sawdust bosoms are but
clockwork, not seeing the wires to which they dance? Poor little
marionettes! do they talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the
booth are out?

You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in the white-washed
cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis without--earwiggy and damp within,
maybe. How pretty you always looked in your simple, neatly-fitting print
dress. How good you were! How nobly you bore your poverty. How patient
you were under your many wrongs. You never harboured an evil thought, a
revengeful wish--never, little doll? Were there never moments when you
longed to play the wicked woman's part, live in a room with many doors,
be-clad in furs and jewels, with lovers galore at your feet? In those
long winter evenings? the household work is done--the greasy dishes
washed, the floor scrubbed; the excellent child is asleep in the corner;
the one-and-elevenpenny lamp sheds its dismal light on the darned
table-cloth; you sit, busy at your coarse sewing, waiting for Hero Dick,
knowing--guessing, at least, where he is--! Yes, dear, I remember your
fine speeches, when you told her, in stirring language the gallery
cheered to the echo, what you thought of her and of such women as she;
when, lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you were happier in your