y much
nicer.

But if Mary had not already felt sure she was in fairy-land, she could
not have thought she was anywhere else when the funny old man began to
take those wonderful things out of his box.

Mary had once picked up a broken doll in William Street, and she had
grown very fond of it. She had taken it about with her, and sat it in
the gutter, with its back against the kerb, while she played in the mud.
She used to have long talks with it, but then she had to make the
answers herself, and only to pretend the dolly made them. For, of
course, Mary knew well enough that dolls can't speak--at least they
can't speak in the world she had come from.

But in the world she lived in now it seemed quite different, and Mary
knew why that was. It was because there were magic counters in this
world and none in the world of William Street. She was beginning to
expect everything to be wonderful, but certainly she had not expected to
see a doll that spoke. But the funny old man took a doll out of his box
that spoke quite distinctly--far more distinctly than little Sally
Murphy. It was true the doll could not say many words at present, but as
it had once begun to talk, Mary had no doubt that with a little practice
it would soon learn to say more, just as Sally had done. Already it said
'Papa' and 'Mama' very nicely.

Mary could not decide which was the more wonderful--a doll that could
talk or a doll that could walk! This doll could walk quite a long way,
for the old man took it to the farthest corner of the room, placed it on
the floor, stooped over it as if he were telling it what to do, then
when he took his hand away and stood upright, there, to Mary's
astonishment, was the odd little doll moving its legs in the most
comical manner and walking across the room entirely without help. There
was a kitten that meowed and ran; there was a house with nice bright red
walls and doors and windows, and with beds already made in the rooms,
for the dolls to live in; and there were ever so many more things for
Mary to choose from, and she chose a good many.

When the man had gone away she lay back in her chair with a flushed
face, and Sister Agatha sent Evangeline away. But after Mary had been
asleep that afternoon, Evangeline came to see her again.

'Well,' she asked, 'and how do you like all your new things?'

'Very much indeed,' answered Mary; 'I think they're lovely.'

'Ah! well, I am glad you are not like the discontented boy,