MIRANDA AGAIN
Once more, on the wings of vision, Miss Terry was out in the snowy street.
She was following the fleet steps of a little girl who carried a
white-paper package under her arm. Miss Terry knew that she was learning
the fate of her old doll, Miranda, whom her own hands had thrust out into a
cold world.
Poor Miranda! After all these years to become the property of a thief! Mary
was the little thief's name. Hugging the tempting package close, Mary ran
and ran until she was out of breath. Her one thought was to get as far as
possible from the place where the bundle had lain. For she suspected that
the steps where she had found it led up to the doll's home. That was why in
her own eyes also she was a little thief. But now she had run so far and
had turned so many corners that she could not find her way back if she
would. There was triumph in the thought. Mary chuckled to herself as she
stopped running and began to walk leisurely in the neighborhood with which
she was more familiar.
She pinched the package gently. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. It
was a doll,--not a very large doll; but Mary reflected that she had never
thought she should care for a large doll. Undoubtedly it was a very nice
one. Had she not found it in a swell part of the city, on the steps of a
swell-looking house? Mary gloated over the doll as she fancied it; with
real hair, and eyes that opened and shut; with four little white teeth, and
hands with dimples in the knuckles. She had seen such dolls in the windows
of the big shops. But she had never hoped to have one for her very own.
"Maybe it will have on a blue silk dress and white kid shoes, like that one
I saw this morning!" she mused rapturously.
She pinched the spot where she fancied the doll's feet ought to be.
"Yes, she's got shoes, sure enough! I bet they're white, too. They _feel_
white. Oh, what fun I shall have with her,"--she hugged the doll
fondly,--"if Uncle and Aunt don't take her away!"
The sudden thought made her stand still in horror. "They sold Mother's
little clock for rum," she said bitterly. "They sold the ring with the red
stone that Father gave me on my birthday when I was seven. They sold the
presents that I got at Sunday School last year. Oh, wouldn't it be dreadful
if they should sell my new doll! And I know they will want to if they see
her." She squeezed the bundle closer with the prescient pang of parting.
"Maybe they'll be out somewhere." With this faint hope she reached the
tenement and crept up the dingy stairs. She peeped in at the door. Alas!
Her uncle and aunt were in the kitchen, through which she had to pass. They
had company; some dirty-looking men and women, and there were a jug and
glasses on the table before them. Mary's heart sank, but she nodded bravely
to the company and tried to slip through the crowd to the other room. But
her aunt was quick to see that she carried something under her coat.
"What you got there? A Christmas present?" she sneered.
Mary flushed. "No," she said slowly, "just something I found."
"Found? Hello, what is it? A package!"
Her uncle advanced and snatched it from her.
"Please," pleaded Mary, "please, I found it. It is mine. I think it is only
a doll."
"A doll! Huh! Who needs a doll?" hiccoughed her uncle. "We want something
more to drink. We'll sell it--"
A bellow of laughter resounded through the room. The paper being torn
roughly away, poor Miranda stood revealed in all her faded beauty. The
pallid waxen face, straggling hair, and old-fashioned dress presented a
sorry sight to the greedy eyes which had expected to find something
exchangeable for drink. A sorry sight she was to Mary, who had hoped for
something so much lovelier. A flush of disappointment came into her cheek,
and tears to her eyes.
"Here, take your old doll," said her uncle roughly, thrusting it into her
arms. "Take your old doll and get away with her. If that's the best you can
find you'd better _steal_ something next time."
Steal something! Had she not in fact stolen it? Mary knew very well that
she had, and she flushed pinker yet to think what a fool she had made of
herself for nothing. She took the despised doll and retreated into the
other room, followed by a chorus of jeers and comments. She banged the door
behind her and sat down with poor Miranda on her knees, crying as if her
heart would break. She had so longed for a beautiful doll! It did seem too
cruel that when she found one it should turn out to be so ugly. She seized
poor Miranda and shook her fiercely.
"You horrid old thing!" she said. "Ain't you ashamed to fool me so? Ain't
you ashamed to make me think you was a lovely doll with pretty clo'es and
_white kid shoes?_ Ain't you?"
She shook Miranda again until her eyeballs rattled in her head. The doll
fell to the floor and lay there with closed eyes. Her face was pallid and
ghastly. Her bonnet had fallen off, and her hair stuck out wildly in every
direction. Her legs were doubled under her in the most helpless fashion.
She was the forlornest figure of a doll imaginable. Presently Mary drew her
hands away from her eyes and looked down at Miranda. There was something in
the doll's attitude as she lay there which touched the little girl's heart.
Once she had seen a woman who had been injured in the street,--she would
never forget it. The poor creature's eyes had been closed, and her face,
under the fallen bonnet, was of this same pasty color. Mary shuddered.
Suddenly she felt a warm rush of pity for the doll.
"You poor old thing!" she exclaimed, looking at Miranda almost tenderly.
"I'm sorry I shook you. You look so tired and sad and homesick! I wonder if
somebody is worrying about you this minute. It was very wicked of me to
take you away--on Christmas Eve, too! I wish I had left you where I found
you. Maybe some little girl is crying now because you are lost."
Mary stooped and lifted the doll gently upon her knees. As she took Miranda
up, the blue eyes opened and seemed to look full at her. Miranda's one
beauty was her eyes. Mary felt her heart grow warmer and warmer toward the
quaint stranger.
"You have lovely eyes," she murmured. "I think after all you are almost
pretty. Perhaps I should grow to like you awfully. You are not a bit like
the doll I hoped to have; but that is not your fault." A thought made her
face brighten. "Why, if you had been a beautiful doll they would have taken
you away and sold you for rum." Her face expressed utter disgust. She
hugged Miranda close with a sudden outburst of affection. "Oh, you dear old
thing!" she cried. "I am so glad you are--just like this. I am so glad, for
now I can keep you always and always, and no one will want to take you away
from me."
She rocked to and fro, holding the doll tightly to her heart. Mary was not
one to feel a half-passion about anything. "I will make you some new
dresses," she said, fingering the old-fashioned silk with a puzzled air. "I
wonder why your mother dressed you so queerly? She was not much of a sewer
if she made this bonnet!" Scornfully she took off the primitive bonnet and
smoothed out the tangled hair. "I wonder what you have on underneath," she
said.
With gentle fingers she began to undress Miranda. Off came the green silk
dress with its tight "basque" and overskirt. Off came the ruffled petticoat
and little chemise edged with fine lace. And Miranda stood in shapeless,
kid-bodied ugliness, which stage of evolution the doll of her day had
reached.
But there was something more. Around her neck she wore a ribbon; on the
ribbon was a cardboard medal; and on the medal a childish hand had
scratched the legend,--
_Miranda Terry._
If lost, please return her to her mother,
_Angelina Terry_,
87 Overlook Terrace.
It was such a card as Miss Terry herself had worn in the days when her
mother had first let her and Tom go out on the street without a nurse.
Mary stared hard at the bit of cardboard. 87 Overlook Terrace! Yes, that
was where she had found the doll. She remembered now seeing the name on a
street corner. _Miranda;_ what a pretty name for a doll! _Angelina Terry;_
so that was the name of the little girl who had lost Miranda. Angelina
must be feeling very sorry now. Perhaps she was crying herself to sleep,
for it was growing late.
Her two girl cousins came romping into the bedroom. They had been having a
hilarious evening.
"Hello, Mary!" they cried. "We heard about your great find!"--"Playing with
your old doll, are you? Goin' to hang up her stockin' and see if Santa
Claus will fill it?"--"Huh! Santa Claus won't come to _this_ house, I
guess!"
Mary had almost forgotten that it was Christmas Eve. There had been nothing
in the house to remind her. Perhaps Angelina Terry had hung up a stocking
for Miranda at 87 Overlook Terrace. But there would be no Miranda to see it
the next morning.
Her cousins teased her for some time, while they undressed, and Mary grew
sulky. She sat in her corner and answered them shortly. But presently the
room was quiet, for the girls slept easily. Then Mary crept into her little
cot with the doll in her arms. She loved Miranda so much that she would
never part with her, no indeed; not even though she now knew where Miranda
belonged. 87 Overlook Terrace! The figures danced before her eyes
maliciously. She wished she could forget them. And the thought of Angelina
Terry kept coming to her. Poor Angelina!
"She ain't 'poor Angelina,'" argued Mary to herself. "She's _rich_
Angelina. Doesn't she live in a big house in the swell part of the city? I
s'pose she has hundreds of dolls, much handsomer than Miranda, and lots of
other toys. I guess she won't miss this one queer old doll. I guess she'd
let me keep it if she knew I hadn't any of my own. I guess it ought to be
my doll. Anyway, I'm going to keep her. I don't believe Angelina loves
Miranda so much as I do."
She laid her cheek against the doll's cold waxen one and presently fell
asleep.
But she slept uneasily. In the middle of the night she awoke and lay for
hours tossing and unhappy in the stuffy little room. The clock struck one,
two, three. At last she gave a great sigh, and cuddling Miranda in her arms
turned over, with peace in her heart.
"I will play you are mine, my very own dollie, for just this one night,"
she whispered in Miranda's ear. "To-morrow will be Christmas Day, and I
will take you back to your little mother, Angelina Terry. I can't do a mean
thing at Christmas time,--not even for you, dear Miranda."
Thereupon she fell into a peaceful sleep.