Rose laughed at Anne’s pleading look, but drew the book toward her end of the table, and taking a pencil from her box of drawing materials made a little sketch, directly under Anne’s written words, of a little girl at a table writing, and pushed the book back toward Anne.
“Now I will knit while you write,” she said.
So Anne again dipped the quill into the ink, and wrote: “This is a picture of me beginning to write a book. Rose made it.” The attic was very quiet, the sound of Anne’s pen, and of Rose’s knitting-needles could be heard, and for a little time there was no other sound; then came a clatter of stout shoes on the stairway, and little Millicent appeared.
“See, I found this in Anne’s room!” she exclaimed.
Anne looked around, and saw Millicent holding up her beloved “Martha Stoddard.” With a quick exclamation she sprang up and ran toward her. “That’s my doll,” she exclaimed, and would have taken it, but Millicent held it tightly exclaiming:
“I want it!”
Anne stood looking at the child not knowing what to do. This doll was the dearest of her possessions. She had given her beautiful coral beads to the Indian girl, and now Millicent had taken possession of her doll. She tried to remember that she was a big girl now, ten years old, and that dolls were for babies like six-year-old Millicent. But “Martha Stoddard” was something more than a plaything to Anne; she could not part with it. But how could she take it away from the little girl?
“I want it,” repeated Millicent, looking up at Anne with a pretty smile, as if quite sure that Anne would be glad to give it to her. Anne put her hands over her face and began to cry.