My little maid! Can it be wrong
To give her Christmas joy, I wonder?
(Thinks, gets work basket, sits down, fashions a rough doll, previously prepared, from bits of cloth. She puts on a dress of gray, like her own—it can be tied and pinned together by previous practice—with apron and kerchief. This is done as she talks, with occasional pauses, finishing it silently and holding it up to view.)
Was it all wrong—that happy mirth—
In the old home in England yonder?
Her childish questions reach my heart.
God loves to have us glad, most surely;
And loving Him, our love for all
Must stronger be, and grow more purely.
(Goes out holding up the doll for her own admiration. After short interval returns without the doll, goes to window and looks out, speaking slowly.)