It was nearly four years ago that I first noticed, in one of the quiet side-streets in the West Central district of London, a sign over a door on which I read:—
DOLLS’ HOSPITAL.
Operations from 9 A.M., to 4 P.M.
Whenever I passed through the street—and that was often, for it was a short cut to Mudie’s,—the largest circulating library in the world,—I used to notice this quaint sign, and wonder, laughingly, who was the superintending physician to this place of healing for the numerous race of dolls.
I often thought I would go in and see the establishment; but one is always busy in London, so, very likely, I should never have entered its door but for a casualty at my own fireside.
When I went downstairs one morning, I heard a sound of weeping, as bitter as that of Rachel of old mourning for her children. The mourner in this case was Mistress Brown-Eyes, as I was wont to call my friend’s little girl.
She was a pretty child, this little Milicent; but you forgot to think about the rest of her face when you saw her wonderful eyes—soft and clear, yet bright, and of the warmest, deepest, yet softest brown. She had made her home in my heart, and so her grief, whatever it was, appealed at once to my sympathies.
“My darling,” I said, as I tried to draw away the little hands from before the sorrowful face, “what can be the matter?”
“Bella is dead!” and the sobs recommenced with fresh violence.