‘It fell from a wagon, you say,’ repeated Papa Durant. ‘What kind of a wagon? A large wagon? A small wagon?’
‘A large wagon,’ answered Anne Marie, ‘but not so large as the furniture van that carried away Madame Provost’s furniture last week.’
‘That tells nothing,’ said Papa Durant, and forgot all about the dolly in thinking how to make a new tart of raspberries, nuts, and whipped cream.
‘Bring me the paper that was wrapped about the box,’ said Maman.
But when Anne Marie ran to fetch it from the coal scuttle, the paper was not there. Grand’mère had burned it when she put coal on the fire to prepare the evening soup.
‘Enjoy the dolly, then,’ said Maman, ‘since at present we cannot find the owner. Perhaps some day we shall learn to whom the dolly belongs. Here is her name, Anne Marie. Polly, Polly Perkins. It is embroidered on her dress.’
Anne Marie hugged Polly Perkins close.
‘Chérie,’ whispered Anne Marie in Polly’s ear. ‘Chérie! Dearie!’
She took off all Polly’s clothes, which rested Polly very much after her long journey, and put on her a nightdress that had once belonged to another doll. Next she wrapped her in the pink-and-blue tufted coverlet and tucked her up for the night on the seat of a soft comfortable chair.
Then Anne Marie, herself ready for bed, knelt beside the chair to say her prayers.