You know the thing she cares most for is that you shall not be ill as your cousin Walter is.
She would rather do anything than have that happen.
As soon as he gets well she will kiss you dozens of times, see if she doesn't.
Meanwhile, she says in this note that you must write her a little letter every day, and she will hang a basket by a string out of the window, and you and I will go and drop the letters into the basket, and stand by the gate and see her pull it up.
That will be funny, won't it?
We will play that you are my little girl, and that you have a real mamma and a make-believe mamma."
"Shall I sleep with you?" demanded Amy,
"Yes, in that bed over there."
"It's a pretty bed," pronounced Amy after examining it gravely for a moment.
"Will you tell me a story every morning?"
"If you don't wake me up too early.
My stories are always sleepy till seven o'clock. Let us see what Ellen has packed in that bag, and then I'll give you some drawers of your own, and we will put the things away."
The bag was full of neat little frocks and underclothes stuffed hastily in all together.
Katy took them out, smoothing the folds, and crimping the tumbled ruffles with her fingers.
As she lifted the last skirt, Amy, with a cry of joy, pounced on something that lay beneath it.
"It is Maria Matilda," she said,
"I'm glad of that.
I thought Ellen would forget her, and the poor child wouldn't know what to do with me and her little sister not coming to see her for so long.
She was having the measles on the back shelf of the closet, you know, and nobody would have heard her if she had cried ever so loud."
"What a pretty face she has!" said Katy, taking the doll out of Amy's hands.
"Yes, but not so pretty as Mabel.
Miss Upham says that Mabel is the prettiest child she ever saw.
Look, Miss Clover," lifting the other doll from the table where she had laid it; "hasn't she got sweet eyes?
She's older than Maria Matilda, and she knows a great deal more.
She's begun on French verbs!"
"Not really!
Which ones?"
"Oh, only 'J'aime, tu aimes, il aime,' you know,—the same that our class is learning at school.
She hasn't tried any but that.
Sometimes she says it quite nicely, but sometimes she's very stupid, and I have to scold her."
Amy had quite recovered her spirits by this time.
"Are these the only dolls you have?"
"Oh, please don't call them that!" urged Amy.
"It hurts their feelings dreadfully.
I never let them know that they are dolls.
They think that they are real children, only sometimes when they are very bad I use the word for a punishment.
I've got several other children.
There's old Ragazza.
My uncle named her, and she's made of rag, but she has such bad rheumatism that I don't play with her any longer; I just give her medicine.
Then there's Effie Deans, she's only got one leg; and Mopsa the Fairy, she's a tiny one made out of china; and Peg of Linkinvaddy,—but she don't count, for she's all come to pieces."
"What very queer names your children have!" said Elsie, who had come in during the enumeration.
"Yes; Uncle Ned named them.
He's a very funny uncle, but he's nice. He's always so much interested in my children."
"There's papa now!" cried Katy; and she ran downstairs to meet him.
"Did I do right?" she asked anxiously after she had told her story.
"Yes, my dear, perfectly right," replied Dr. Carr.
"I only hope Amy was taken away in time.
I will go round at once to see Mrs. Ashe and the boy; and, Katy, keep away from me when I come back, and keep the others away, till I have changed my coat."
It is odd how soon and how easily human beings accustom themselves to a new condition of things.
When sudden illness comes, or sudden sorrow, or a house is burned up, or blown down by a tornado, there are a few hours or days of confusion and bewilderment, and then people gather up their wits and their courage and set to work to repair damages.