Henry and Sarah came in the noon train, and their cousins were very glad to see them. They lived in the city, and had a great deal to say about the fine things at home. Then Frank had to tell about his voyage down the river on a raft. The city cousins felt a deep interest in this story, for they had heard their parents speak of it.
Flora had no story to tell, and seemed to be thrown into the shade by the fine talk of her city cousins, and the great doings of her brother Frank. But she was thinking of something all the time—something that was a great deal better than fine talk, or even sailing on the river.
She had a great plan in her head. She had been thinking of it for two or three weeks. Indeed, she had been so kind of sober while she thought, that her parents feared she might be sick. She was almost always laughing, and was as fond of play as any little girl you ever saw.
It is no wonder, therefore, that her father and mother thought she must be sick, for this plan had made a great change in her,—just as when boys and girls become men and women, and have a great many things to think about, they have to stop playing, and do not laugh half so much as when they were children.
After dinner, the children all met in the play room. It was a nice little chamber up stairs, where Frank and Flora kept their playthings, and where they played in stormy weather. I dare say all my little readers would have enjoyed a visit to this room, for it was a perfect museum of playthings.
In one corner there was a complete doll’s house. It is true, there was but one room in Miss Dolly’s mansion, but it had ever so many fine things in it.
It was about a yard square. Two sides of the room were formed of the two sides of the chamber, while the other two were made of a kind of fence, about six inches high.
This little chamber had a carpet of its own—and a very pretty carpet it was, too. I believe it was a piece of drab cashmere, with a handsome figure on it; and it looked just like a carpet.
In one corner stood the bed. It was nicely made up, with a clean white spread, and real sheets and pillows. The bedstead was made of rosewood, and the corners were carved; and if you had seen it, you would have said it was the prettiest one in the world.
There was a centre table in the middle of the room, on which were placed two or three of the tiniest books you ever saw. One of them was called “A Picture of London.” It was given to Flora by her friend Mr. Bigelow, a bookseller in the city. Another was “The Life of Tom Thumb.” Neither of these books was more than an inch square; and they were just big enough for the little centre table.