'Oh yes, I should like some toys,' answered Mary.
'Then,' said Evangeline, as Sister Agatha leaned back near the bell-handle, 'let us have some toys!' and as she spoke she raised her hands above her head and clapped them together.
She had scarcely clapped her hands when the door opened again and a little old man entered the room with a square box which looked far too heavy for him. He had a tiny face, all over lines, and he wore a long coat that reached to his boots. He bowed low to Evangeline, just as Mary expected him to do, and then he went down on his knees to open the box.
By this time Mary naturally thought she should see curious things, because she had no doubt whatever that she was in fairy-land, where all sorts of curious things are always happening, as every one knows. But even if Mary had not known she was in fairy-land before, she would have become quite sure of it now.
You see, everything was so different from what she had seen and heard at William Street. She had such different things to eat. She had actually had three new dresses given to her at one time! And then Evangeline seemed very, very different from Mrs. Coppert, and very, very much nicer.
But if Mary had not already felt sure she was in fairy-land, she could not have thought she was anywhere else when the funny old man began to take those wonderful things out of his box.
Mary had once picked up a broken doll in William Street, and she had grown very fond of it. She had taken it about with her, and sat it in the gutter, with its back against the kerb, while she played in the mud. She used to have long talks with it, but then she had to make the answers herself, and only to pretend the dolly made them. For, of course, Mary knew well enough that dolls can't speak—at least they can't speak in the world she had come from.
But in the world she lived in now it seemed quite different, and Mary knew why that was. It was because there were magic counters in this world and none in the world of William Street. She was beginning to expect everything to be wonderful, but certainly she had not expected to see a doll that spoke. But the funny old man took a doll out of his box that spoke quite distinctly—far more distinctly than little Sally Murphy. It was true the doll could not say many words at present, but as it had once begun to talk, Mary had no doubt that with a little practice it would soon learn to say more, just as Sally had done. Already it said 'Papa' and 'Mama' very nicely.
Mary could not decide which was the more wonderful—a doll that could talk or a doll that could walk! This doll could walk quite a long way, for the old man took it to the farthest corner of the room, placed it on the floor, stooped over it as if he were telling it what to do, then when he took his hand away and stood upright, there, to Mary's astonishment, was the odd little doll moving its legs in the most comical manner and walking across the room entirely without help. There was a kitten that meowed and ran; there was a house with nice bright red walls and doors and windows, and with beds already made in the rooms, for the dolls to live in; and there were ever so many more things for Mary to choose from, and she chose a good many.
When the man had gone away she lay back in her chair with a flushed face, and Sister Agatha sent Evangeline away. But after Mary had been asleep that afternoon, Evangeline came to see her again.