“‘Patent, unbreakable, celluloid. Made in France.’ That’s in print, and here in writing is, ‘This travelling doll goes with Travelling Library Number Ten to any child selected by persons responsible for the distribution of the books. It is the reward for good behavior or special merit in the place of a medal, and is to belong to the child until the library is ready to go on, when the dolly in neat condition and clean, her hair combed, her clothing washed and ironed, must be put back in her box and packed for the next child on the circuit.’”
Almira snatched at the paper and ran into the boat. She laid Queeny on her mother’s lap and crept out to the little deck. Botsey, again on guard, stood by the door. Almira seized her fiercely, tore off the blue shawl, dragged at the soiled skirt. An old greasy bottle! How could it ever be taken back as her very own child when Queeny had to go?
“Almira,” called the mother, scenting tragedy, “don’t you want me to play grandmother with you and Queeny?”
“What’s the use? She’s like your books. She ain’t mine, and I never had a real child before. The paper says she must travel with the books.”
But the placid cheeriness of the blind woman smoothed matters: “But she’s yours now, and sometimes the books stay for weeks and weeks.”
Here was some comfort. One week was a long time; a month so long that Almira could hardly remember it. And Queeny was beautiful. Why not love her and be happy?
And she was, for weeks and weeks that went by like a dream. She quite forgot what had to happen until one day Wally Jim stopped with a note from Miss May—in printing writing that Almira could read. It said:
“Will you let Queeny go on to-morrow? There’s a dear little girl just your age up in the mountains who may have to walk on crutches all her life. She is expecting the doll every day now, so have it looking clean and pretty.”
“Almira?” questioned the mother. But the child did not answer. Fortunately no one was near but Wally Jim to see her screwed-up face as she gulped once or twice. She handed him the paper to read, making a sign of silence. Whatever her emotions, she always instinctively spared her sympathetic mother.
“I wouldn’t let her go!” blurted Wally Jim, kicking one cowhide boot so hard against the tying-post that he rocked the house.