“How miserly you are,” said her brother; “and selfish, too; for you know I can’t have a military funeral till you’ll let me bury that old thing.”
Dora began to cry.
“There you go, crying!” said Robin, impatiently. “Look here; I won’t take it till you get the new one on your birthday. You can’t be so mean as not to let me have it then?”
But Dora’s tears still fell. “I love this one so much,” she sobbed. “I love her better than the new one.”
“You want both; that’s it,” said Robin, angrily. “Dora, you’re the meanest girl I ever knew!”
At which unjust and painful accusation Dora threw herself and the doll upon their faces, and wept bitterly. The eyes of the soft hearted Nicholas began to fill with tears, and he squatted down before her looking most dismal. He had a fellow-feeling for her attachment to an old toy, and yet Robin’s will was law to him.
“Couldn’t we make a coffin, and pretend the body was inside?” he suggested.
“No, we couldn’t,” said Robin. “I wouldn’t play the Dead March after an empty candle-box. It’s a great shame—and I promised she should be chaplain in one of my night-gowns, too.”
“Perhaps you’ll get just as fond of the new one,” said Nicholas, turning to Dora.
But Dora only cried, “No, no! He shall have the new one to bury, and I’ll keep my poor, dear, darling Betsy.” And she clasped Betsy tighter than before.