“Janet, Janet,” he shouted, as soon as he had jumped off his pony, “where are you, Janet? Come and see what I’ve got for you!”
Janet came slowly out of the study, where she had been lying coiled up on the floor, near the low window, watching for her father’s return.
“I’m here, Hughie,” she said, trying to look interested and bright, though the effort was not very successful.
But Hughie was too excited and eager to notice her manner.
“Look here, Janet,” he exclaimed, unwrapping the paper which covered Miss Dolly. “Now, isn’t she a beauty? Far before that daft-like old Mary Ann; eh, Janet?”
Janet took the new doll in her hands. “She’s bonny,” she said, hesitatingly. “It’s very kind of you, Hughie; but I wish, I wish you hadn’t. I don’t care for her. I dinna mean to vex ye, Hughie,” she continued, sadly, “but I canna help it. I want, oh I do want my ain Mary Ann!”
She put the new doll down on the hall table, burst into tears, and ran away to the nursery.
“She’s just demented about that Mary Ann,” said Hughie to his father, who had followed him into the hall.
“I’m sorry for your disappointment, my boy,” said his father, “but you must not take it to heart. I don’t think wee Janet can be well.”
He was right. What they had so dreaded came at last, just as they had begun to hope that the danger was over. The next morning saw little Janet down with the fever. Ah, then, what sad days of anxiety and watching followed! How softly everybody crept about—a vain precaution, for poor Janet was unconscious of everything about her. How careworn and tear-stained were all the faces of the household—parents, brothers and sisters, and servants! What sad little bulletins, costing sixpence if not a shilling each in those days, children, were sent off by post every day to the absent ones, with the tidings still of “No better,” gradually growing into the still worse, “Very little hope.” It must have been a touching sight to see a whole household so cast down about the fate of one tiny, delicate child.