[MISS SOPHONISBA SYLVIA PLANTAGENET TUDOR.]
BY LILLIAS C. DAVIDSON.
Far away, across, the blue Atlantic, lies an island—not a very big island, but a wonderful one, for all that. Its name is England. Who knows what is the capital? London? quite right; I see the Young People are well up in their geography. Well, in this London there is a great square called Portland Place, and before one of its big tall houses there was standing a carriage one bright afternoon.
Presently the house door was flung wide open by a most gentlemanly butler in black, and down the steps there came an imposing procession.
First, Lady Ponsonby, in silks and laces, very stately and very beautiful; then little Ethel; and last, but not least—oh no, indeed! by no means least—Miss Sophonisba Sylvia Plantagenet Tudor, closely clasped in the arms of her doting mother, Miss Ethel.
"What, only a doll?"
My dear Young People, can it be possible that I hear you say "only"? Miss Sophonisba Sylvia Plantagenet Tudor was by far the most important member of the present party—at all events, Ethel would have told you so, for so she firmly believed. Never was there so lovely a doll. Eyes like violets; real golden hair, cut with a Gainsborough fringe (what you American little girls called "banged," although why, I don't know, I am sure); complexion as beautiful as wax and paint could make it; and a costume which was the admiration and envy of every one of Ethel's particular friends. Muriel Brabazon, who lived in Park Lane, had actually shed tears when she saw Miss S. S. P. Tudor's new black satin jacket with its jet fringe; but then poor Muriel had no mamma, and was not as well brought up as might be desired.
All the same, Miss Sophonisba was a pride and joy to any possessor, and Ethel felt a thrill of calm happiness at every fresh glance that was cast at their carriage as they drove quickly through the busy streets toward the Park. Hyde Park, you must know, is to London what the Central Park is to New York; and in it there is a long drive called Rotten Row, where London people go in crowds, and on this afternoon it was a perfect crush of carriages of every description.
The Ponsonby carriage had to go at a slow and stately pace, and all the throngs of people who walked by the side of the Row, or sat on the green chairs under the trees, had a fine opportunity of gazing their fill at Miss Plantagenet Tudor's glories.