tant she had swept out of the room the spell her presence always
had upon them was broken. The door had scarcely closed before every
seat was empty. The little girls jumped or tumbled out of theirs; the
older ones wasted no time in deserting theirs. There was a rush toward
the boxes. Sara had bent over one of them with a delighted face.

"These are books, I know," she said.

The little children broke into a rueful murmur, and Ermengarde looked
aghast.

"Does your papa send you books for a birthday present?" she exclaimed.
"Why, he's as bad as mine. Don't open them, Sara."

"I like them," Sara laughed, but she turned to the biggest box. When
she took out the Last Doll it was so magnificent that the children
uttered delighted groans of joy, and actually drew back to gaze at it
in breathless rapture.

"She is almost as big as Lottie," someone gasped.

Lottie clapped her hands and danced about, giggling.

"She's dressed for the theater," said Lavinia. "Her cloak is lined
with ermine."

"Oh," cried Ermengarde, darting forward, "she has an opera-glass in her
hand--a blue-and-gold one!"

"Here is her trunk," said Sara. "Let us open it and look at her
things."

She sat down upon the floor and turned the key. The children crowded
clamoring around her, as she lifted tray after tray and revealed their
contents. Never had the schoolroom been in such an uproar. There were
lace collars and silk stockings and handkerchiefs; there was a jewel
case containing a necklace and a tiara which looked quite as if they
were made of real diamonds; there was a long sealskin and muff, there
were ball dresses and walking dresses and visiting dresses; there were
hats and tea gowns and fans. Even Lavinia and Jessie forgot that they
were too elderly to care for dolls, and uttered exclamations of delight
and caught up things to look at them.

"Suppose," Sara said, as she stood by the table, putting a large,
black-velvet hat on the impassively smiling owner of all these
splendors--"suppose she understands human talk and feels proud of being
admired."

"You are always supposing things," said Lavinia, and her air was very
superior.

"I know I am," answered Sara, undisturbedly. "I like it. There is
nothing so nice as supposing. It's almost like being a fairy. If you
suppose anything hard enough it seems as if it were real."

"It's all very well to suppose things if you have everything," said
Lavinia. "Could you suppose and