Still could she not hold herself from fancying, at times, that her doll
Jane was a queen, and that Miss Letts could make "spells" by the mere
crook of her bony fingers. Worst of all, still she must think of her
Friend, tell herself with an ache that he would never come back again,
feel, sometimes, that she would give up Mary and all the rest of the
world if he would only be beside her bed, as he used to be, talking to
her, holding her hand. During these days, had there been any one to
observe her, she was a pathetic little figure, with her thin legs like
black sticks, her saucer eyes that so readily filled with tears, her
eager, half-apprehensive expression, the passionate clutch of the doll
to her heart, and it is, after all, a painful business, this
adoration--no human soul can live up to the heights of it, and, what is
more, no human soul ought to.
As Mary grew tired of Barbara she allowed to slip from her many of the
virtuous graces that had hitherto, for Barbara's benefit, adorned her.
She lost her temper, was cruel simply for the pleasure that Barbara's
ill-restrained agitation yielded her, but, even beyond this, squandered
recklessly her reputation for virtue.
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