"Well, then, look in the basket."
The basket was full of tiny garments made of the white stuff, petticoats, drawers and nightgown, sewn with minute tucks and edged with lace. Mamma unfolded them.
"New clothes," she said, "for your new dolly."
"Oh—oh—oh—I love you so much that I can't bear it; you little holy
Mamma!"
Mamma said, "I'm not holy, and I won't be called holy. I want deeds, not words. If you love me you'll learn your lessons properly the night before, not just gabble them over hot from the pan."
"I will, Mamma, I will. Won't you say it?"
"No," Mamma said, "I won't."
She sat there with a sort of triumph on her beautiful face, as if she were pleased with herself because she hadn't said it. And Mary would bring the long sheet that dragged on her wrist, and the needle that pricked her fingers, and sit at Mamma's knee and sew, making a thin trail of blood all along the hem.
"Why do you look at me so kindly when I'm sewing?"
"Because I like to see you behaving like a little girl, instead of tearing about and trying to do what boys do."