She was an ugly, old-fashioned doll, with bruised waxen face of no
particular color. Her mop of flaxen hair was straggling and uneven, much
the worse for the attention of generations of moths. She wore a faded green
silk dress in the style of Lincoln's day, and a primitive bonnet, evidently
made by childish hands. She was a strange, dead-looking figure, with pale
eyelids closed, as Miss Terry dragged her from the box. But when she was
set upright the lids snapped open and a pair of bright blue eyes looked
straight into those of Miss Terry. It was so sudden that the lady nearly
gasped.
"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.
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