"And I do want a doll."
"I told you to be quiet, Alice," returned the mother, a rising note of anger in her voice. In fact, she was close upon a burst of tears, but the emotions are all near of kin and linked in mystery of relationship. Pity and love for the moment became unreasoning wrath. "You are disobedient," she continued.
"O mamma! we are vewy sorry," said the lad, who had been the less offending culprit.
"Well, well. No matter. It is bed-time, children. Now to bed, and no more nonsense. I can't have it, I can't bear it."
The children rose submissively, and, kissing her, were just leaving the room, when she said: "Oh! but we must not lose our manners. You forget."
The girl, pausing near the doorway, dropped a courtesy.
"That wasn't very well done, Alice. Ah! that was better."
The little fellow made a bow quite worthy of the days of minuet and hoop, and then, running back, kissed the tall mother with a certain passionate tenderness, saying, softly, "Now, don't you cry when we are gone, dear, dear mamma," and then, in a whisper, "I will pway God not to let you cwy," and so fled away, leaving her still perilously close to tears. Very soon, up-stairs, the old nurse, troubled by the children's disappointment, was assuring them with eager mendacity that Kris would be certain to make his usual visit, while down-stairs the mother walked slowly to and fro. She had that miserable gift, an unfailing memory of anniversaries, and now, despite herself, the long years rolled back upon her, so that under the sad power of their recurrent memories she seemed a helpless prey.
And Opened the Case of A Miniature, Slowly and With Deliberate Care.