It was not long before she persuaded Master Bogey to confess his curiosity about the house and the people in it, and he began to enjoy himself immensely. He heard all about the pictures that had astonished him so much, and how the holly and yew branches had managed to get on to the frames, and about the Christmas party which was just over. He saw the rocking-horse, and even had a ride on it; the cupboard where nurse kept the jams for tea, and the door which led to the attics overhead. But the most delightful part of all was when he led his companion to the window and showed her the tree in which he lived standing black in the whiteness and the starlight.
“You can’t see my parents, for they are asleep,” he remarked; “but I think that round sort of bump where the branches fork is the back of my mother’s head. I wish you could see all of it.”
“Does she know where you are?” asked the doll.
“Well, no,” replied he, “she doesn’t; she had gone to bed when I left, and I really couldn’t wake her. But I’ll tell her everything in the morning, and all about you, and how charming you are.”
“I’m afraid she’ll punish you,” said the doll, sighing. “I only hope she won’t throw you out of the tree.”
“Gracious!” cried Master Bogey, “what an idea! Why, my mother is the best mother in the world! I know what put that into your head, all the same. I saw one of the little girls throw her doll on the ground once, when I was looking down from the branches. It wasn’t you, I trust?”
“Indeed it was,” said she; “that was Miss Jane, and I am her doll. I am very unhappy, for she is dreadfully cruel to me. Sometimes she bangs me on the floor and puts me in the corner for hours. And look at my clothes! The others are lucky—they belong to Josephine and Julia. They have each got a new dress, but this ragged one is all I have, and only one shoe.”
The tears ran down her face, poor little thing!
“Show me Miss Jane, and I will go and kill her!” cried Master Bogey, in a rage.
“Oh no, no!” begged the doll. “If you did that, I might be thrown away. No one would care to keep a shabby thing like me. I might be flung into the ashpit.”