just come and told me."

"Lord, Miss 'Lina, how you talk!" The room was right again now just as,
a moment before, it had been wrong. She switched on the electric light,
and, in the sudden blaze, caught the last flicker in the child's eyes of
some vision, caught, held, now surrendered.

"'Tis company she's wanting, poor lamb," she thought, "all this being
alone.... Fair gives one the creeps."

She heard with relief the opening of the door. Miss Emily came in,
hesitated a moment, then walked over to her niece. In her hands she
carried a beautiful doll with flaxen hair, long white robes, and the
assured confidence of one who is spotless and knows it.

"There, Angelina," she said. "I oughtn't to have burnt your doll. I'm
sorry. Here's a beautiful new one."

Angelina took the spotless one; then with a little thrust of her hand
she pushed the half-open window wider apart. Very deliberately she
dropped the doll (at whose beauty she had not glanced) out, away, down
into the Square.

The doll, white in the dusk, tossed and whirled, and spun finally, a
white speck far below, and struck the pavement.

Then Angelina turned, and with a little sigh of satisfaction looked at
her aunt.