"I suppose some of them are," Dolores admitted, "but I never cared much for their society myself; as a rule they only think and talk about beaus, and marriage, and silly gossip which does not interest me. But I'm sure you are quite different, and we shall get along nicely together. For pity's sake, what is that!"
This last exclamatory query was uttered just as Helena unfolded numerous wrappings from a large inanimate object, which very much resembled a sleeping infant several months old. Helena's olive cheek glowed with a sudden flush like the rosy side of a ripe peach. She bent low over the object, which was now quite free from its protecting wraps, as she answered, "I suppose you will think me terribly silly; mamma said she was afraid the girls would make sport of me, if I brought it with me, but when I came away I found I just could not leave my dear dolly at home. Papa gave it to me three years ago Christmas, and I think it is the loveliest creature I ever saw in the shape of a doll. I have been so fond of her, and I have always had her in my room at night; and it broke my heart to think of leaving her behind me. So at last mamma said I might bring her. I shall keep her in the bottom drawer of the dresser, and no one but you need know she is here. I don't want the whole school laughing at me; but I know I shall be a great deal happier because she is with me. Did you feel badly when you had to give up your dolls?"
"I never played with a doll in all my life," Dolores answered, "I always knew they were only dolls."
"Yes, of course real babies are nicer, but they cry so—and one has to be so careful—"
"Real babies!" echoed Dolores, in undisguised contempt, "I am sure I never want to play with those miserable little beings. I never know what to do with them."
"Don't you love babies? the sweet innocent little creatures," cried Helena, clasping her arms over an imaginary infant, and cuddling it to her breast with true mother-tenderness. "Oh, I think they are the loveliest, dearest little things in the world. How can you dislike them?"
"I don't really dislike them," Dolores replied; "I only pity them. Nobody ever asks them whether or not they wish to come into this world of trouble—nobody ever wants them, and every body tires of their plaintive protest against life. Yes, indeed, I pity the poor things."
"Oh, but I am sure some babies are wanted," Helena interposed. "A little brother came to me three years ago, and we were all so glad and happy, as if an angel had been sent to us. And it was an angel," she added, in a lower tone, "for it was called back to heaven in a few months, and we were left so very, very lonely. But we were glad it came even for that brief time. It made us all better, I know. Have you any brothers or sisters, Dolores?"
"No," Dolores answered, "my mother died when I was six months old."
"Oh," said Helena, very softly, "then you are an orphan? I think that is the saddest thing in the world—to have no father and mother on earth."