that covered her, as one tucks in a little child.

Yes, she was lovely, really prettier than Stephen's baby, she felt,
though she would not say it. But when you came to kiss on the cold
wax--ah, that was the test. And Stephen's baby would grow and walk and
talk, and have cunning little teeth and curly hair, maybe. She did so
love curly hair.

"Dolly," she began gravely, "I am going to put you away. I shall be
eleven next May, and though I shall always be father's little girl, I
shall be growing up and too old to play with dolls. Then I shall have so
much to do. And I should love the real live baby best. That would hurt
your feelings. Sometime there may be another little girl who will be as
glad to have you come on Christmas Day as I was. I shall love you just
the same, but you have a different kind of love for something that is
human and can put truly arms around your neck and kiss you. When girls
are little they don't mind the difference so much. You won't feel real
lonesome, for dolls don't. We only make believe they do. And now I shall
not make believe any more, because I am getting to know all about real
things. There are so many real and strange things in the world that are
lovely to think about, and I seem to have learned so much to-day. I
can't feel quite as I did yesterday."

She put on the wadded satin cloak and the dainty hood and laid it back
in the box. There was room for the muff and the travelling shawl. She
put the cover on softly. She folded the pretty garments and packed them
in the corner, and spread the towel over them all.

There was no morbid feeling of sacrifice or sense of loss. A great
change had come over her, a new human affection had entered her soul.
She had a consciousness that could not be put into words. She had
outgrown her doll.

Margaret was going to an oratorio with Dr. Hoffman. The boys were to
attend the Christmas celebration at Allen Street church with the Deans.
Hanny had not cared to go. Her mother kept watching her with a curious
feeling as if she saw or suspected some change in her.

The room settled to quiet. The fire burned drowsily. Mrs. Underhill took
the big rocking-chair at one side, and Hanny came and settled herself on
a footstool, leaning her arms on her mother's knee.

"I shall not hang up my stocking next Christmas," she said, in a soft,
slow tone. "It is very nice when you believe in it, and real fun
afterward when you don't believe in it but like it; when y