Mrs. Wing smiled softly. “How good of you! The last one was about little Nell. Why is it our books are so much better than books for people that can see? Jack thinks so, and so does Almira. How I bless you, ma’am!”
Mrs. Lenox could say nothing. May had told her the story of the young mother, attacked by the scarlet fever that left her sightless ten years before.
“I’ll let her come on Wednesday,” pursued Mrs. Wing, “but I’ll never budge from this chair till she gits back. It’s not as if I’d never seen how dangerous things are.”
With the school party this tale has naught to do. The child reached home betimes, carrying a package of books and a pasteboard box that seemed almost as long as herself. She was trembling with excitement.
“The library’s come, ma! And here’s two books and some cake and candy and—O ma, just guess what’s in the box?”
The mother felt, smiled, and shook her head.
“A little girl—a live little girl-baby doll!” And she lifted it from its shell. “And Miss May—she’s sometimes so funny!—she said at first she believed she’d rather I wouldn’t have her, but the lady said she wanted me to.”
The mother held out her arms for the doll, almost as excited as the child.
Almira expounded, “Its dress is blue, with buttons and buttonholes, and her hair’s real; put your hand here. It’s brown, and these teenty brown curls slant on her cheeks, and her eyes are brown, and she can shut them and go to sleep just like you and me.”
“Well, I never!” said the mother, feeling. “And what is this paper pinned on her dress?”