"What are you laughing at, old lady?" he asked.
"Because Mab can almost walk by herself," she told him.
"Then she'll be running away one of these days," said the boy.
"Oh! she wouldn't—she wouldn't run away from me, because I love her so;" and Dorrie stooped and gave her a sounding kiss.
"You just wait and see," was Ralph's answer; then he went on, and the sisters pursued their walk.
Back again, then dinner for the children, a long sleep for the dollies, and next, the golden afternoon to be lived through and enjoyed.
"Annie!" cried Dorrie, coming down from the nursery, and peering in at the dining-room, where Annie was now reading with a will, deep in the wildest tragedy of the story, where a dog, a gypsy, and a certain Sophia were playing their parts in real story-book fashion. "Annie!" so silvery-tongued Dorrie spoke her name again.
"Well, what?" was the unladylike answer from Annie.
"I fink the dollies want to go out in their mail-cart."
"Well, take them."