"And so I had to make believe that Priscilla was alive," said Miss Parrott,
her eyes glowing with remembrance of her childhood, brought so singularly
near on this morning; "I really had to Rachel."
"I've got a child," said Rachel, growing suddenly communicative, and
looking up from the old doll to watch the effect of her announcement.
"Have you, dear?" responded Miss Parrott, quite pleased at the bright face,
from which the last tear had been wiped away.
"Yes, my Phronsie gave her to me, and she sleeps with me," said Rachel, in
great satisfaction.
"I suppose she is very much like Priscilla," observed Miss Parrott.
"Oh, no, she isn't," declared Rachel promptly, turning her mind again to
the ancient doll; "my child is pretty and she shuts her eyes. She isn't a
bit like yours."
"Well, Priscilla was always pretty to me," said Miss Parrott, astonished
that she felt so little the slight to her child. "Well, now, Rachel, we
will put the doll aside. You may lay it on the bed and then come back
here."
Rachel got off from her cricket and went over to the other side of the
apartment.
"My, what a funny bed!" she exclaimed, using her eyes to their utmost to
see as much of the canopy, with its tester of blue and white chintz, the
four posts beneath, and the counterpane executed in honeycomb pattern.
Miss Parrott, exploring her cupboard to get out something else with which
to entertain Rachel, did not hear her; so she slowly returned, walking
backward to observe as much of this queer article of furniture as the time
allowed.
Pages:
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264