“Why not?”
“Because it is little things that make big ones. I don’t think anything is really so very little.”
“I don’t see,” said Violet, knitting her brow.
Winifred pondered awhile.
“Mamma once told me a story about it, when I was ill; I don’t think I understood then—I mean I didn’t think what it meant; but I have been thinking about it lately—I understand better now.”
“A story!” repeated Violet, with more animation in her tone. “I like listening to stories. Tell me the story, please, Winnie.”
“I will soon, when it gets dark. I want you to look in that box there in the corner, and see if you like the things in it.”
Violet went eagerly to work, lifting the lid, and carefully examining each of the parcels disclosed to view. As she did so, rapturous exclamations of delight escaped her.
Winifred had taken great pains with her selection of toys and books and pretty trifles. Such a box as Violet was now examining would have filled any child with delight. Poor little Violet, who had always suffered from a lack of childish treasures, could not say enough, nor admire enough; she was in a perfect ecstasy.
“Oh, Winnie, how lovely! What perfectly sweet things! Oh, I never saw such a lot of lovely toys! That doll is just a darling! Oh! whoever did send you such a splendid box?”