"What sort of babies—live ones, or rag ones, or wax ones?" inquired Oscar.
"No, none of them," replied Mary; "I mean crying babies, like Annie Davenport's."
"O, you mean those little dolls that make a squeaking noise when you squeeze them. No, I believe I did n't see any," said Oscar.
"No, Mr. Fletcher would n't keep such silly things as them," said Jerry, who was very fond of teasing his sisters.
"No, they aint silly, either, are they cousin Oscar?" said Mary.
"No," replied Oscar, "seeing it's you, they aint silly."
Mary was continuing her backward walk around the room, and was just at that moment passing before Jerry, when he suddenly put out his foot, and stumbling over it, she fell heavily upon the floor, striking her head against a corner of the sofa. A loud scream immediately followed this mishap, and as the author of it hastened to raise up his sister, he was himself a little frightened; but seeing no blood flowing from her head, he concluded she was "more scared than hurt," and tried to turn the affair into a joke, saying:
"There, sis, you're a little crying baby yourself, now. Come, stop your noise; you 've blubbered enough about it. It didn't hurt you, did it?"
"Come here, dear, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Preston, who had left the room a moment before, and hurried back on hearing Mary scream.
"Jerry knocked me over," said Mary, sobbing bitterly, as her mother lifted her up into her lap.