"That is it, is it?" she said. "A morbid longing after a Dream. I begin
to understand. Nerves,--indigestion,--too many sweet things,--I fear I
cannot, then, be of much assistance. However, the General of the Tin
Soldiers has a wonderful turn for doctoring, quite a natural gift. I
will send him to you. He may be able to do you some good."

So she went on her way, and the little Marionette was once more alone
with her sorrow and regret.

By and by, however, the General of the Tin Soldiers trotted up on his
handsome black charger, and reined in before her.

"My dear little lady," he said kindly, if pompously, "in what pitiful
condition do I find you? Come, come, tell an old soldier, who has been
through much himself, all about it." And, as she did not at once answer:
"Well," he continued good-naturedly, "never mind. Do not trouble to
speak, I will prescribe for you. I recognize your complaint, and have
already treated with much success a large number of my Tin Soldiers
suffering in the same way. This, then, is my prescription for your
malady: plenty of fresh air; exercise in moderation; early hours and
plain diet. But don't let your diet become monotonous. For example, a
rice pudding one day, sago the next, tapioca the third. And a little
gentle amusement every now and then to keep up your spirits; Christy
Minstrels; a pleasant, little musical gathering of friends; and so on.
Finally, a powerful tonic to put a little more color into those poor
little cheeks. Kindly permit me to feel your pulse."

And so saying the General bent from his saddle and courteously took the
little Marionette's hand. Then, looking much alarmed, "_Galloping,
galloping!_" he exclaimed, "I must do likewise, and order you a tonic at
the nearest chemist's without delay."

And putting spurs into his horse he rode away hurriedly.

"All that won't do me any good," said the little Marionette aloud. "I
don't want that."

"What do I want?" she sighed.

"A jest, my good creature," said a voice near her, and looking up she
saw the Clown with his hands in his pockets dancing a double-shuffle in
front of her.

"A jest," he repeated. Then as he danced and shook the bells on his cap,
he chanted in time to the movement of his feet--

"Broken nose and crooked eyes,
Broken heart and mournful sighs,--
Life's a jest for a' that."

"No, it isn't; not to me," answered the little Marionette very sadly.

"It will be, by and by," he said cheer