s afraid she would get the fever. She used to cry to come
to me, but I knew it wouldn't be good for her."

What firm judgment is here, what tenderness without weakness, what
discreet motherhood! When Christmas came, it appears that baby hung up
her stocking with the rest. Her devoted parent had bought for her a
slate with a real pencil. Others provided thimble and scissors and
bodkin and a spool of thread, and a travelling-shawl with a strap, and
a cap with tarletan ruffles. "I found baby with the cap on, early in
the morning, and she was so pleased she almost jumped out of my arms."
Thus in the midst of visits to the Coliseum and St. Peter's, the drama
of early affection goes always on. "I used to take her to hear the
band, in the carriage, and she went everywhere I did." But the love of
all dolls, as of other pets, must end with a tragedy, and here it
comes. "The next place we went to was Lucerne. There was a lovely lake
there, but I had a very sad time. One day I thought I'd take baby down
to breakfast, and, as I was going up stairs, my foot slipped and baby
broke her head. And O, I felt so bad! and I cried out, and I ran up
stairs to Annie, and mamma came, and O, we were all so sorry! And mamma
said she thought I could get another head, but I said, 'It won't be the
same baby.' And mamma said, maybe we could make it seem so."

At this crisis the elder brother and sister departed for Mount Righi.
"They were going to stay all night, and mamma and I stayed at home to
take care of each other. I felt very bad about baby and about their
going, too. After they went, mamma and I thought we would go to the
little town and see what we could find." After many difficulties, a
waxen head was discovered. "Mamma bought it, and we took it home and
put it on baby; but I said it wasn't like my real baby, only it was
better than having no child at all!"

This crushing bereavement, this reluctant acceptance of a child by
adoption, to fill the vacant heart,--how real and formidable is all
this rehearsal of the tragedies of maturer years! I knew an instance in
which the last impulse of ebbing life was such a gush of imaginary
motherhood.

A dear friend of mine, whose sweet charities prolong into a third
generation the unbounded benevolence of old Isaac Hopper, used to go at
Christmas-time with dolls and other gifts to the poor children on
Randall's Island. Passing the bed of a little girl whom the physician
pronounced to be unconsciou