"Miranda!" she exclaimed. "It is old Miranda! I have not thought of her for
years." She held the doll at arm's length, gazing fixedly at her for some
minutes.

"I cannot burn her," she muttered at last. "It would seem almost like
murder. I don't like to throw her away, but I have vowed to get rid of
these things to-night. And I'll do it, anyway. Yes, I'll make an experiment
of her. I wonder what sort of trouble she will cause."

Not even Miss Terry could think of seeing old Miranda lying exposed to the
winter night. She found a piece of paper, rolled up the doll in a neat
package, and tied it with red string. It was, to look upon, entirely a
tempting package. Once more she stole down the steps and hesitated where to
leave Miranda: not on the sidewalk,--for some reason that seemed
impossible. But near the foot of the flight of steps leading to the front
door she deposited the doll. The white package shone out plainly in the
illuminated street. There was no doubt that it would be readily seen.

With a quite unexplainable interest Miss Terry watched to see what would
happen to Miranda. She waited for some time. The street seemed deserted.
Miss Terry caught the faint sound of singing. The choristers were passing
through a neighboring street, and doubtless all wayfarers within hearing of
their voices were following in their wake.

She was thoroughly interested in her grim joke, but she was becoming
impatient. Were there to be no more passers? Must the doll stay there
unreclaimed until morning? Presently she became aware of a child's figure
drawing near. It was a little girl of about ten, very shabbily dressed,
with tangled yellow curls hanging over her shoulders. There was something