“No, Josephine. No, indeed. Your unhappy Rudanthy was a waxen young person who was indiscreet enough to lie down before an open fire. You seem to be real flesh and blood, and might easily scorch, yet would hardly melt. Next time you take a nap, however, I’d advise you to lie on a lounge or a bed.”
“I will. I wouldn’t like to look like her. But what shall I do? I don’t know a store here,” she wailed.
“I do. I might be able to find you a new doll, if you won’t cry,” came the answer which surprised himself.
“Oh, I shan’t cry any more. Never any more—if I can help it. That’s a promise. But I shouldn’t want a new doll. I only want a head. Poor Rudanthy! Do you s’pose she suffered much?” was the next anxious question.
“It’s not likely. But let Rudanthy lie yonder on the cool window sill. I want to talk with you. I want you to answer a few questions. Sit down by me, please. Is this comfortable?”
Josephine sank into the midst of the cushions he piled for her on the wide sofa and sighed luxuriously, answering:
“It’s lovely. This is the nicest place I ever, ever saw.”
“Thank you. Now, child, tell me something about other places you remember, and, also, please tell me your name.”
Josephine was surprised. What a very short memory this uncle had, to be sure. It wouldn’t be polite to say so, though, and it was an easy question to answer.
“My name is Josephine Smith. I’m named after you, you know, ’cause you’re my papa’s twin. I’m sent to you because”—and she went on to explain the reasons, so far as she understood them, of her long journey and her presence in his house. She brought her coat and showed him, neatly sewed inside its flap, a square of glazed holland on which was written her name, to whom consigned, and the express company by which she had been “specially shipped and delivered.”