"This is what it is, ma'am," began Mrs. Bonnet; and she told her arrangement of the story, uttering her words as a mowing-machine cuts weeds.
Mrs. Darling abstractedly took the rocking-chair; as she listened, the pleasant, happy look forsook her face.
"Oh, cut it short!" she interrupted, sharply. "What you have to tell is that the child there has broken one of the dolls, isn't it?"
There was an assenting mutter from Mrs. Bonnet.
"And you've kept her here, when she ought to have been in bed these hours, to bear the first beauty of my displeasure—"
Mrs. Darling had said so much in a hard voice, with an appearance of cold anger; here her voice suddenly died, and she burst out crying like a vexed, injured child. "I declare it is too bad!" she sobbed, quite reckless of making a spectacle of herself, while all looked on and listened in consternation—"I declare it is too bad! It's no use! It doesn't matter what I do—it is always the same! It is always taken for granted I will conduct myself like a beast. Who can wonder, after that, if I do? Here I find them, pale as sheets, the five of them, shaking in their boots because a forlorn little child has broken a miserable doll. And what is it supposed I shall do about it? Didn't I dress the hundred of them for children, and little poor children too? And I must have known they would get broken, of course. Why did I dress them? What did I spend months dressing them for? Solely for show, they think—not for any charity, any kindness, any love of children, or anything in the world but to make an effect on an occasion, I suppose—to make myself a merit with the parson, perhaps!" Here her crying seemed to become less of anger and nervousness, and more of sorrow; one would have thought her heart-broken. "Oh, it is too bad! One would imagine I never said a decent thing, or did a kind act, to any one. And Heaven knows it is not for lack of trying to change. But no one sees the difference! I am treated like a vixen and a terror. All the people about me hate and fear and deceive me! A proof of it to-night! Oh, the lesson! Oh, I wasn't meant for this! I wasn't meant for it! When I remember last Sunday's sermon, and how straight to my heart it went—oh, I am a fool to cry! Come here to me, dear child. What is your name? What? A little louder! What did you say? Tibbie! Oh, what a nice, funny name!" Mrs. Darling smiled through her tears, pathetically hiccoughing and sighing while she spoke. "You didn't think I was going to scold you, did you, dear? Of course not! It was an accident; I understand all about it. I used to break my dolls' heads frequently, I remember very well—"
Mrs. Darling had put her arm endearingly around Tibbie, and tried to make the child's head easy on her shoulder. But poor Tibbie's muscles could not relax; her stiff little face rested uncomfortably, without pressing, upon its warm alabaster prop. "Let us see, dear, now, what we can do to make us both feel happier. I dressed all those dolls for little children I am not acquainted with at all. Which of them should you like the very best? Which should you like for your very own?"
Tibbie could neither make herself move nor speak; but the tail of her eye travelled towards the dolls.
"The bride!" Sally took the liberty of saying, beaming as she came to Tibbie's aid.
"The bride? Which one is that? That one? Of course!" Mrs. Darling reached for the resplendent favorite and placed her in Tibbie's hands. "There, my dear."