"Did you give it away after your little sister died?"
"Yes, many years after; when I was a woman grown."
"And has the somebody you gave it to—has that somebody the doll now?"
"I think so. Don't you think, Ruth, we would best take this poor broken Henrietta and put her back in the chest from which we took her?"
"Yes," Ruth answered soberly, "I should like to know that she was laid away with Henrietta's things, the broken cup and saucer and the mittens with the thumbs worn out and all the rest of the things she used to have."
"And some day when I can afford it, I will get you a new doll."
"Lucia offered to give me any one of hers that I would choose if I ever wanted another one, but I don't feel now that I ever shall."
Ruth drew a long sigh. "I loved Henrietta so." Her chin quivered and then the tears flowed again as they did at intervals all the evening.
And at bedtime, when there was no Henrietta sitting in her little wooden chair smiling into the dimness, came the most piteous weeping of all, till Ruth's pillow was wet with tears, and when Miss Hester peeped in at midnight—so many buttonholes had there been that day—she found the child wide awake, the drops still burdening her long lashes.
"Poor baby," she said bending over to give her one of her gentle kisses, "would you like to come in and sleep with me?"