“No. Who wants to play with a thing that looks like it ought to be alive, and ain’t?” inquired this solemn little monster.
“Why, all the little girls I ever saw loved to play with dolls,” said Roma, much amused by the oddity of the “type” before her.
“Then if they do, I think they are not possessed of common sense.”
“You are certainly a fairy changeling. You can’t be a human child,” said Roma.
“I don’t know about that. I don’t remember what I was at first. I only remember being Madame Marguerite’s little girl. And now I am going upstairs to go to the bottom of mamma’s big trunk and get my Christmas present for you,” said Owlet; and away she sped.
Her mother called her back, and said:
“Bring the little red morocco case down with you, too.”
“With papa’s picture?”
“Yes, with papa’s picture.”
The child flew away, and after a little space returned with the miniature case in one hand and a small casket in the other. She thrust the case into her mother’s hand and then ran eagerly to Roma, opened the little casket, and displayed a simple little necklace of turquoise beads.