III—THE PRETTIEST DOLL
It was nearly Christmas now, and most of the toys had been gathered. The rocking-horses were still growing, and a few of the largest dolls; but the tops, balls, guns, blocks, and drums were all packed in baskets ready for Santa Claus.
One morning Peter was in the wax-doll bed, dusting the dolls. All of a sudden he heard a sweet voice saying, “Oh, Peter!”
He thought at first it was one of the dolls, but they could only say “Papa!” and “Mamma!”
“Here I am, Peter,” said the voice again, and what do you suppose Peter saw? It was his own dear little lame sister.
She was not any taller than the dolls around her, and she looked just like one of them with her pink cheeks and yellow hair. She stood there on her crutches, poor little thing, smiling lovingly at Peter.
“Oh, you darling,” cried Peter, catching her up in his arms. “How did you get in here?”
“I saw one of the Monks going past our house, so I ran out and followed him. When he came through the gate I came in, too, but he did not see me.”
“Well,” said Peter, “I don’t see what I can do with you. I can’t let you out, because the gate is locked, and I don’t know what the Monks will say.”
“Oh, I know!” cried the little girl. “I’ll stay out here in the garden. I can sleep every night in one of those beautiful dolls’ cradles over there, and you can bring me something to eat.”
“But the Monks come out every morning to look at the Christmas gifts, and they will see you,” said her brother.
“No, I’ll hide! Oh, Peter, here is a place where there isn’t any doll.”
“Yes, that doll didn’t come up.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do! I’ll stand here where the doll didn’t come up and try to look like one.”
“Perhaps you can do that,” said Peter. He was such a good boy that he didn’t want to do anything wrong, but he couldn’t help being glad to see his dear little sister.
He took food out to her every day, and she helped him in the garden. At night he tucked her into one of the dolls’ cradles with lace pillows and a quilt of rose-colored silk.
So they went on, day after day, and they were just as happy as they could be. Finally the day came for gathering the very last of the Christmas gifts, because in six days it would be Christmas, and Santa Claus had to start out in a day or two.
So the Monks went into the garden to be sure that everything was perfect, and one of them wore his spectacles. When he came to the bed where the biggest dolls were growing, there stood Peter’s sister, smiling and swinging on her crutches.
“Why, what is that!” said the Monk. “I thought that doll didn’t come up. There is a doll there—and a doll on crutches, too.”
Then he put out his hand to touch the doll and she jumped,—she couldn’t help it. The Monk jumped too, and his Christmas wreath fell off his head.
“The doll is alive!” he exclaimed. “I will pick her and show her to my brothers.”
THE GOOD FATHER TOOK PETER’S LITTLE SISTER, CRUTCHES AND ALL, IN HIS ARMS.
Then the good father put on his Christmas wreath, took Peter’s little sister, crutches and all, in his arms, and carried her into the chapel.