“I want you to help me wrap her up.”
“Poor baby!” said the mother. “Maybe some day Mrs. Lenox will send another.”
“Never want another!” said the child, sullenly.
Going out to her stool in front, she dressed Queeny in the old skirt, put the shawl over her head, and tried to stand her on guard, Botsey fashion. But Queeny doubled up, and refused. So she held her in her arms with a savage satisfaction, thinking, “Queeny isn’t any bottle doll.”
Once the mother brushed the wool of the little shawl as the child passed her on some household task.
“You’ve done gone back to Botsey? That’s right. You’ve the sense of a grown-up.”
The afternoon brought a scare. Miss May herself came for the packages. Suppose! Oh, suppose! Almira barely had time to plump Queeny between the feather beds before Miss May landed in Wally Jim’s skiff. Almira was glad that she had been prompt, and that the string was tied in hard knots. Miss May praised her for being a good little girl, and made her wince by depicting the gladness of that lame child in the mountains when Queeny should arrive.
But Almira did not repent for a minute. She even said, “Poor little girl!” with a hard-hearted irony. Miss May puckered her forehead, as she always did when she was thinking.
That night Almira tossed and tumbled, unable to sleep. Then the moon rose and sent a straight shaft of light through one of the little square windows on the doll’s face. Almira smothered a scream. One of Queeny’s eyes was asleep, the other wide open, staring at her. She shook her hard, but that eye would not sleep. She held her up, but although the shut eye opened, the open eye shut, giving the effect of a wicked wink.
How she longed for dear, blind Botsey! Where was Botsey now? Could she feel, and did she know what had been done? No, Botsey was only a bottle.