must lift
his little hoof carefully and put it in his mistress's hand, before his
lump of sugar was forthcoming, he wished, like the Lady Gertrude, that
there had never been a yellow dog in the world.

When next Mrs. Evringham, Jewel, and Anna Belle settled in the ravine to
the reading of a story, it was Jewel's turn to choose. When her mother had
finished naming the remaining titles, the child hesitated and lifted her
eyebrows and shoulders as she gave the reader a meaning glance. Mrs.
Evringham wondered what was in her mind, and, after a minute's thought,
Jewel turned to Anna Belle, sitting wide-eyed against a tree.

"Just excuse me one minute, dearie," she said; then, coming close to her
mother's ear, she whispered:--

"Is there anything in 'The Talking Doll' to hurt Anna Belle's feelings?"

"No, I think she'd rather like it," returned Mrs. Evringham.

"You see," whispered Jewel, "she doesn't know she's a doll."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Evringham.

Jewel sat back: "I choose," she said aloud, "I choose 'The Talking Doll.'"

As Anna Belle only maintained her usual amiable look of interest, Mrs.
Evringham proceeded to read aloud as follows:--

* * * * *

When Gladys opened her eyes on her birthday morning, the sun was streaming
across her room, all decorated in rose and white. It was the prettiest room
any little girl could have, and everything about the child looked so
bright, one would have expected her to laugh just for sympathy with the gay
morning; but as she sat up in bed she yawned instead and her eyes gazed
soberly at the dancing sunbeams.

"Ellen," she called, and a young woman came into the room.

"Oh, you're awake, Miss Gladys. Isn't this a fine birthday Mother Nature's
fixed up for you?"

The pleasant maid helped the little girl to bathe and dress, and, as the
toilet went on, tried to bring a cheerful look into Gladys's face. "Now
what are you hoping your mother has for you?" she asked, at last.

"I don't know," returned the child, very near a pout. "There isn't anything
I want. I've been trying to think what I'd like to have, and I can't think
of a thing." She said this in an injured tone, as if the whole world were
being unkind to her.

Ellen shook her head. "You are a very unlucky child," she returned
impressively.

"I am not," retorted Gladys, looking at Ellen in astonishment. The idea
that she, whom her father and mother watched from morning until nig