“Why, Peggy, a sister will be ever so much nicer than a pony; she will be able to play with you and speak to you soon.”
“Can’t she speak? She can’t be a very good one,” said Peggy dolefully.
“No, she can only cry as yet—she cries a good deal.”
“Well, I don’t want her then, father. Do please send her away, and get me the pony instead, or even the cat.”
“I think we’ve got to keep her, Peggy. Suppose you wait till you see her. Perhaps you won’t wish then to send her away.”
“Can she walk, if she is so stupid, and can’t talk?” Peggy asked suspiciously.
“Oh no, she can’t walk; she is dressed in long robes, just like your Belinda.”
“Who has been playing with her?” Peggy asked. “Has mother? It doesn’t amuse her much to play with Belinda, and if this thing is just like her, I wonder mother cares to play with it either.”
“Yes, mother has played with her most of the time.”
“Well, I think it’s very queer of her, for she doesn’t like Belinda a bit,” said Peggy. Then, after a moment’s silence, she added, “Perhaps I’ll like it too; I don’t feel as if I would. And please, father, will you let me ride up to the house on your back?”