“Dolls,—different kinds, paper dolls and some rag dolls,” said Alice, her shabby little shoes sticking out straight ahead from the depths of the chair she had chosen.
“Rag dolls!” Betty tossed her head scornfully.
“Yes,—rag dolls, please,” urged Elsa.
“Some rag dolls, surely,” said Miss Ruth; “one of my dearest dolls was a black Dinah with a red dress and yellow ribbons on her woolly hair,—a homely-dear doll my grandmother made for me.”
“Did your grandmother make dolls for you?” asked Elsa in a low voice.
“Yes—but that was probably because somebody had made dolls for her when she was a little girl,” explained Miss Ruth.
“Dolls, then, it’s going to be,” said Betty. “We will all buy some dolls, and make dresses for them ourselves, at the Club meetings.”
Ruth Warren glanced at the children quickly. Elsa was daintily dressed in a soft, black gown with a fine-embroidered white guimpe; Betty had on a pretty blue-and-green Scotch plaid dress, with a simple muslin guimpe: the Danforths and the Whites were well-to-do people. But what about the Holts? The hem of Alice’s sailor-suit had been twice let down,—the careful pressing of the creases could not conceal the fact; her stocking-knees were closely darned, her shoes were shabby; and her story of how all the family worked to help earn money was undoubtedly true. If Betty and Elsa bought dolls, Alice might not be able to buy so many as they. So Miss Ruth said at once: “I will provide the dolls, and you may dress them. Each of you bring some pieces of pretty ginghams and wash-goods to me before next Friday, and I will have the dresses cut out and ready for you to begin on when you come to the Club meeting. Do you think you can make dresses for as many as two dozen dolls in all,—twenty-four dolls that will be, and eight apiece for you?”
“O, yes, yes!” came the chorus of answers.
“Then, sometime when the Club is sewing and we are tired of talking, I will tell you a story about a little old lady’s doll,” said Miss Ruth.