While Sweetest Susan was lying there watching the shadows and wondering when Drusilla would go to sleep, she heard a voice call out,—
“Oh, dear! I believe I’ve got smut all over my frock again!”
It was the queerest little voice that ever was heard. It had a tinkling sound, such as Susan had often made when she tied her mother’s gold thimble to a string and struck it with a knitting-needle. Just as she was wondering where it came from, a little old woman stepped from behind one of the andirons and shook the ashes from her dress.
“I think I’d better stay at home,” said the little old woman, “if I can’t come down the chimney without getting smut all over my frock. I wonder where Mr. Thimblefinger is?”
“Oh, I’m here,” exclaimed another tinkling voice from the fireplace, “but I’m not coming in. They are not asleep, and, even if they were, I see the big Black Cat in that chair there.”
“Much I care!” cried the little old woman snappishly. “I’ll call you when I want you.”
Then she went around the room where Sweetest Susan’s Dolls were scattered, and looked at each one as it lay asleep. Then she shook her head and sighed.
“They look as if they were tired, poor things!” she said. “And no wonder! I expect they have been pulled and hauled about and dragged around from pillar to post since I was here last.”
Then the little old woman touched the Dolls with her cane, one by one. Each Doll called out as it was touched,—
“Is that you, Granny?”