Adapted from the story by Gertrude Hall.[34]

Time: Christmas Eve.

Scene: Mrs. Darling's dressing-room. Dressing-table, with elaborate and glittering toilette articles, and a large and rather showy photograph of the late Mr. Darling, also a smaller one of Mrs. Darling's cousin, the Reverend Dorel Goodhue. R., an alcove hidden by curtains, containing a couch on which repose The Hundred dolls. Stage requires two entrances, one communicating with Mrs. Darling's bedroom, the other with the rest of the house.

[Enter Catherine, with two carriage wraps,
which she surveys critically.

Catherine [sniffing at one of the wraps, with a sharp glance at the bedroom door]. Humph. If there's the merest smidgeon of camphire about this, I'll hear from it! It's been airing 'most a week, too. [Lays them carefully on couch or chair, then stepping softly, surveys the dressing-table and its appointments. Takes up newspaper from chair, and glances over it while expressing her sentiments.] I'll just take this down with me till it's called for. What with Mr. Jackson the butler, and Sally the kitchen-maid always going home nights, and Cook slippin' off to her bloomin' family every chance she gets, it's likely to be lonesome for me this evening. I'll be bound Mrs. Bonnet'll be off with some friend or other, the minute Mrs. Darling's out of the house. Not that her company's over-pleasant. I'd rather stay alone any time. It's good luck for every other soul in the house when Mrs. Darling dines out. But I never come in for the extras.

[Enter Sally with fur-lined carriage shoes,
which she places beside the wraps.

Sally. Mrs. Darling wanted those warmed in the kitchen. I sh'd think all these fur fixin's 'd be warm enough without no stove.

Catherine [sullenly]. You going, too, I suppose?

Sally. Why, yes. Ain't I done everything? There's no need of me staying, is there?

Catherine. No, I don't suppose there is. I just thought you might be, that's all.

Sally. Tell you what I'd like to do!

Catherine. What'd you like to do, Sally?

Sally [confidentially]. That's to come back again after I've been home for just a minute.

Catherine [looks up, unable to conceal her interest]. You don't mean just to oblige, do you, Sally?

Sally. Well, I'd do it in a minute, for nothing else beside, but that ain't quite all I was thinking of, just this once. Miss Catherine—— [hesitates, then continues enthusiastically] ——have you seen 'em in there? The whole hundred of 'em laid out in the alcove here. [Draws back curtain a little, partly disclosing the couch with an array of daintily dressed dolls. They pick up one or two, and look them over admiringly.] I saw 'em last night when Mrs. Bonnet she sent me up for the lamps to clean, and I've been thinkin' about it ever since. Law! wouldn't any child like to see a sight like that! There's a little girl in my tenement, she'd just go crazy. Do you think there'd be any harm in it, if I was to bring her over and let her get one peep? She's as clean a child as ever you saw. She comes of dreadful poor folks, but just as respectable. She never seen anything like it in her life. Law, what would I have done when I was a young one, if I'd seen that? I'd thought I was dead and gone to heaven. I say, Miss Catherine, do you think anybody'd mind?

Catherine [callously]. How'll they know? Look here, Sally; you go along as fast as you can, and fetch your young one. And when you've got back, perhaps I'll step out a minute, two or three doors up street, and you can answer the bell while I'm gone. Now hurry into your things. I'll give you your car-fare.

Sally. Miss Catherine, you're just as good as you can be, and I'll do something to oblige you, too, sometime. [Exeunt.]

[Enter Mrs. Darling from bedroom in evening
dress. Takes her cousin's photo from
dressing-table and holds it at arm's length.

Mrs. Darling. Well, sir, does your charming cousin reach your standard of feminine appearance? Or is she still far from that pinnacle of elegance to which she aspires? She should be perfect indeed when she is to pose before the world as the highly-favored of the distinguished Mr. Goodhue.... And all the time, I know perfectly well that he prefers Quaker gowns, or hospital caps and aprons.... Well, I'm not exactly a lily of the field, but when it comes to Solomon in all his glory!... The morning papers will say so, at least. "The Reverend Dorel Goodhue, accompanied by his cousin, Mrs. Darling," and so forth. Oh, sometimes I do grow so tired of it all! It's such a farce!... Now, this won't do at all. The Reverend Dorel Goodhue may preach to me on Sunday mornings, from a properly elevated pulpit, in a proper and decorous and conventional manner, but—— Just be kind enough to turn your reproachful face away, sir, and let your cousin finish her prinking. [Replaces photo face down.] Bonnet, why don't you come and do my hair?

[Enter Bonnet, slowly waving a hot curling iron.

Bonnet. Yes, Mrs. Darling.

[Mrs. Darling sits before mirror beautifying
her finger-nails, while Bonnet curls
a few straggling locks of hair.

Mrs. D. [diligently polishing, murmurs]. Mind what you are about.

[Bonnet removes tongs and catches the lock
with greater precaution.

Mrs. D. [louder, with a warning acid in her voice]. Mind what you are about!

[Bonnet begins again, after a pause to make firm
her nerve, catching the hair with infinite solicitude.

Mrs. D. [almost screams]. Mind what you're about! Didn't I tell you to be careful? You've been pulling right along at the same hair! Do consider that it is a human scalp, and not a wig—you are dealing with! Bonny, you're not a bad woman, but you will wear me out. Come, go on with it; it's getting late. [She turns the photo face out once more, and after a moment, as if the sight of it made her repent, she rolls up her eyes angelically to the reflection of Bonnet's face in the mirror.] Bonny, do you think that black moirÉ of mine would make over nicely for you? I am going to give it to you. No, don't thank me—it makes me look old. Now, my fur shoes.

[Bonnet brings the shoes and begins to struggle
with them.

Mrs. D. [bracing herself against Bonnet's efforts]. I suppose—I suppose I have a very bad temper! [Laughs in a sensible, natural way.] Tell the truth, Bonny; if every mistress had to have a certificate from her maid, you would give me a pretty bad one, wouldn't you? But I was abominably brought up. I used to slap my governesses. And I've had all sorts of illnesses; trouble, too. And I mostly don't mean anything by it. It's just nerves. Poor Bonny! I do treat you shamefully, don't I?

Bonnet [expanding in the light of this uncommon familiarity]. Oh, ma'am, I would give you a character as would make it no difficulty in you getting a first-class situation right away; you may depend upon it, ma'am, I would. Don't this shoe seem a bit tight, ma'am?

Mrs. D. Not at all. It's a whole size larger than the old ones. If you would just be so good as to hold the shoe-horn properly. There, that is it. [Rises and stands surveying the two wraps.] Which shall I wear? [Bonnet draws back for a critical view, but dares not suggest unprompted.] The blue is prettier, but the gray with ermine is more becoming. Oh, Bonny, decide for me quickly, like a tossed-up penny!

Bonnet. Well, I think now I should say the blue one, ma'am.

Mrs. D. [musing]. Should you? But I look less well in it. Surely I would rather look pretty myself than have my dress look pretty, wouldn't I? Give me the gray, and hurry. Mr. Goodhue will be here in a second.... Bonnet, you trying creature! Didn't I tell you to put a hook and eye in the neck of this? Didn't I tell you? Where are your ears? Where are your senses? What on earth do you spend your time thinking about, I should like to know, anyway? I wouldn't wear that thing as it is, not for—not for—— Oh, I'm tired of living surrounded by fools! Take it away—take it away! Bring the other one.... Now, button my gloves. [Looks at herself in the glass, passively letting Bonnet take one of her arms to button the glove. Murmurs.] Ouch! Go softly; you pinch! [Bonnet changes her method, and pulls very gently. Louder.] Ouch! You pinch me! [Bonnet stops short, looks helplessly at the glove, casts up her eyes as if appealing to heaven, then tries again.]

Mrs. D. [screams]. Ouch, ouch, ouch! You pinch like anything! I'm black and blue! [Tears her arm from the quaking Bonnet, fidgets with the button, and pulls it off.] Bonnet, how many times must I tell you to sew the buttons fast on my gloves before you give them to me to put on?... No, they were not! [Pulls off the glove and throws it far across the room. A knock at the door.]

Man's voice [respectfully]. Mr. Goodhue is below, ma'am.

Mrs. D. [humbly, like a child reminded of its promise to behave]. Get another pair, and let me go. [Tucks a final rose, or bunch of violets into the bosom of her dress, turns to leave the room, then pauses to draw back the curtains and look at the dolls. Speaks gushingly.] Aren't they lovely, the hundred of them? Did you ever see such a sight? One prettier than the other! I almost wish I were one of the little girls, myself!

Bonnet. Them that gets them will be made happy, surely, ma'am. I suppose it's for some Christmas Tree?

Mrs. D. They are for my cousin Dorel's Orphans. Pick up, Bonny. Open the windows. Mind you tell Jackson to look at the furnace. I shall not be very late—not later than twelve. [Exit.]

[Bonnet moves briskly about, straightening
the room, with no affectation of soft-stepping.
She digresses from her labors
to get a black skirt from the bedroom,
which she examines critically, then replaces. A knock.

Man's voice [only a shade less respectful than before]. Miss Pittock is waiting below, ma'am.

Bonnet. Very well, I'll be down directly. [Exit, and re-enter at once with a rather old-fashioned cloak and bonnet, which she dons before the glass.] I hope I haven't kept Miss Pittock waiting. [Looks contemptuously at her wrap.] She looks quite more than the lady in her mistress's last year's cape. They say the shops is a sight to behold this year—I haven't a minute to get a look at them myself—and it do seem as if people made more to-do about Christmas than they used. I wonder what kind of shops Miss Pittock'll fancy most. I'd rather see the show-windows in the Grand Bazaar first. They do have the most amazing show there. Anyway, we've got plenty of time. Her lady won't be home before twelve, and no more will mine. [Turns down gas, and exit.]

[Enter Catherine, in a coat, with jet spangles
and a hat with nodding plumes.
Turns up gas, and looks about her while
drawing on a pair of tight gloves. Enter
Sally and Tibbie in outdoor wraps,
shawls, and "comforters."

Sally. Oh, Miss Catherine, I didn't know where you was. I thought maybe you was gone.

Tibbie [hanging back]. You didn't tell me! You didn't tell me!

Catherine. Now you'll be sure she don't touch anything, Sally. [Looks Tibbie over.]

Sally. Naw! She won't hurt anything. I've told her I'd skin her if she did.

Catherine. Are her hands clean? You'd better give them a wash, anyhow.

[Tibbie drops her eyes, a little mortified.

Sally. All right. I'll wash 'em.

Catherine. Did she scrape her boots thoroughly on the mat before she came up?

Sally. I looked after all that, Miss Catherine. Just you go along with an easy mind.

Catherine. Well, I'm off. I won't be long gone. Why don't you give her a piece of that cake? It's cut. But don't let her make any crumbs. Here, give me your things. I'll take 'em down to the kitchen. Good-by, little girl. I guess you never was in a house like this before. Good-by, Sal. Is my hat on straight? [Exit with coats.]

Sally. She's particular, ain't she?

Tibbie. I'd just as soon wash them again, but they're clean. I thought you said she was gone off to a party, and going to be gone till real late.

Sally [plumps down to contort herself in comfort]. Law! She thought it was Mis' Darling herself! Law! Law! [Tibbie laughs, too, but less heartily.] Now what'll we do first? Do you want the treat right off?

Tibbie. Oh, lemme guess, first, Sal, and tell me when I'm hot! Is it made of sugar?

Sally. No, it ain't.

Tibbie. But you said it was a treat, didn't you, Sally?

Sally. I did that. But ain't there treats and treats? There's goin' to the circus, for instance. That hasn't any sugar.

Tibbie. Is it a circus, Sally? Is it a circus?

Sally. No, it ain't a circus, but it's every bit as nice.

Tibbie. Is it freaks, Sally? Oh, tell me if it's freaks! It isn't? Are you sure I'll like it very much? It's nothing to eat, and it's nothing I can have to keep, and it's not a circus. What color is it? You'll answer straight, won't you?

Sally. Oh, it's every color in the world, and striped, and polka-dotted, and crinkled, and smooth. There's a hundred of it.

Tibbie [rapturously]. Oh!

Sally [takes her hand]. Come along now, I'm going to wash your hands in Mrs. Darling's basin. Ain't it handsome? [Pokes the scented soap under the nose of Tibbie, who sniffs delightedly.] Flowers on the chiny, too. [Washes Tibbie's hands while they talk.] Did you get anything for Christmas yet, Tibbie? [Tibbie moves her head slowly up and down, absorbed in the process of washing.] What did you get?

Tibbie. A doll's flatiron an' a muslin bag of candy. I put the iron on to heat and it melted. I gave what was left to Jimmy.

Sally. Who gave them to you?

Tibbie. Off the Sunday-school tree. But there weren't no lights on it because it was daytime. Sally, I know something that has a hundred——

Sally. What's that? Let's see if you've got it now?

Tibbie [shamefacedly]. A dollar—is a hundred cents.

Sally. Well, and would I be bringing you so far just to show you a dollar? This is worth as much as a dollar, every individual one of them. Tibbie, it's just the grandest sight you ever seen—pink and blue and yellow and striped——

Tibbie [after looking her fixedly in the face, now almost shouts]. It's marbles!

Sally. Aw, but you're downright stupid, Tibbie! I don't mind telling you I'm disappointed. You're just a common, everyday sort of a young one, with no idear of grandness in your idears, at all! And you don't seem to keep a hold on more than one notion at a time. First it's a dollar. Is that pink and blue? And next it's marbles. Is marbles worth a dollar apiece? Now tell me what's the grandest, prettiest thing ever you saw——

Tibbie. ... Angels.

Sally. D'you ever see any?

Tibbie. In the church-window, painted.

Sally. Well, this is as handsome as a hundred angels, less than a foot tall, all in new clothes, with little hats on.

Tibbie. Sally, I think I know, now. Only it couldn't be that. There couldn't likely be a hundred of them altogether, for it isn't a store you brought me to! You didn't tell me we were going to a store.

Sally. No more it is. We're going to stay right here in Mrs. Darling's house, and no place but here.

Tibbie [faintly, looking all about]. But where is there a hundred of anything?

Sally. Oh, this ain't it, yet! This is only like the outside entry. Now, Miss Tibbs, what kind of scent will you have on your hands?

Tibbie. Oh, Sal!

Sally [at dresser]. Shall it be Violet, or Roossian Empress, or—what's this other?—Lilass Blank? or the anatomizer played over them like the garden hose? [They unstop the bottles in turn, and draw up great, noisy, luxurious breaths.]

Tibbie. This, Sally, this one with a double name, like a person. [Sally pours a drop in each hand, and Tibbie dances as she rubs them together.] Why are the little scissors crooked? [Busily picks up things one after the other]. What for is the fluting-irons? What for is the butter in the little chiny jar? What's the flour for in the silver box? Oh, what's this? Oh, Sal, what's that?

Sally. It's to make you pale. It ain't fashionable to be red. [Picks up powder-puff, and gives Tibbie, who draws back startled and coughing, a dusty dab on each cheek, then applies it to her own. The two stand gazing in silent interest at themselves in the mirror, gradually breaking into smiles. Sally suddenly hitches first one shoulder, then the other, and brushes her face clean, Tibbie faithfully aping her movements. Then they look at themselves again.]

Tibbie. But I ain't pale, anyhow.

Sally. Law! that you ain't!

Tibbie. Who's the gentleman, Sal, in the pretty frame?

Sally. That's Mrs.'s husband. He ain't been living some time.

Tibbie. Oh, he ain't living.

Sally. Now, Tibbs, I'm going to get you that cake before I show you the Hundred. You wait here. But don't you hurt anything, or I'll skin you sure, like I told Miss Catherine. And whatever you do, don't you look behind that curtain till I come back.

Tibbie. Is the Hundred there?

Sally. Yes, it's there. [Exit.]

[Tibbie looks at the curtain for a moment,
then turns to examine other wonders.
Strokes the soft cushions, etc., with the
palm of her hand, which she frequently
stops to smell. Gazes at the photo of the
Reverend Dorel.

Tibbie. He looks like a real kind, good man. I'm going to ask Sally if she knows him. [Sits down on the floor and strokes the fur rug. Enter Sally with cake-box. Tibbie chooses gravely, then speaks with her mouth full.] I never tasted any cake like this before. M-m-m-m! Say, Sally, this big thing's 'most as good as a dog. It's so soft I'd like to sleep on it.

Sally [with feigned coldness]. Oh, all right! I don't think we'll bother any more about seeing The Hundred.

Tibbie. I had forgotten, honest, Sally.

Sally. Eat your cake, and come along, then.

Tibbie [jumping up]. Can't I take it, in my hand?

Sally. No, for when you see 'em, you'll drop it quick all over the floor.

Tibbie [hurrying it down]. All right. I will.

Sally. Wait a minute. You turn your back, and I'll go and open the curtains. When I sing out, you turn around.

[Tibbie stands facing audience, hands clasped
tightly in impatience.

Sally. Ready!

[Tibbie gives one bound, then stops short
quite overcome.

Sally [expectantly]. Well, ma'am? [Tibbie stands gazing, unable to speak.] Well, I never! Don't you like 'em? What on earth did you expect, child? Well, I never! Well, if it don't beat all! Why, when I was a young one—— Why, Tibbie, girl—don't you think they're lovely?

Tibbie [whispers]. Yes. [Nodding her head slowly, then letting it hang.]

Sally [understanding]. Aw, come out o' that! Come, let's look at 'em one by one, taking all our time. Come to Sally, darling, and don't feel bad. We'll have lots of fun. [Takes Tibbie's hand and draws her nearer the dolls, then sits on the floor and pulls Tibbie down into her lap.]

Tibbie. I had almost guessed it, you know, when you said like angels with hats on. But I couldn't think there would be a hundred unless it was a store. What has the lady so many for?

Sally. Bless your heart! They ain't for herself! They're for orphans in a school that a minister cousin of hers is superintendent of. She's been over a month making these clothes. Every Wednesday she would give a tea-party, and a lot of ladies come stitching and snipping and buzzing over the dolls' clothes the blessed afternoon. And I washed the tea things after them all!

Tibbie. They are for the orphans. Are there a hundred orphans?

Sally. Oh, I guess likely.

Tibbie. Suppose, Sally—suppose there were only ninety-nine, and some girl got two!

Sally. Well, we two have got a hundred for to-night, Tibbie, so let's play, and glad enough we've got our mothers. Look, this is the way you must hold them to be sure and not crumple anything. [Sally slips her hand under a doll's petticoats, and they peep at the dainty underclothes. Sally spurs on Tibbie's enthusiasm by the tones of her voice, making the wonder more, to fill the child's soul to intoxication. Tibbie easily responds, fairly rocking herself to and fro with delight.]

Sally. My soul and body! Did you ever see the like! [Sighs.] And not a pin among 'em. All pearl buttons, and silk tying-strings, and silver hooks and eyes; and, mercy on my soul! a little bit of a pocket in every dress, with its little bit of a lace pocket-handkerchief inside. D'you see that, Tibbie?

Tibbie [breathlessly]. Oh, Sally! Oh, Sally!

Sally. Come on, Tibbie; let's choose the one we would choose to get if we was to get one given us. Now I would like that one in red velvet. It's just so dressy, ain't it, with the gold braid sewed down in a pattern round the bottom. Which would you take?

Tibbie. I should like the one all in white. She must be a bride; see, she has a wreath and veil and necklace. I should like her the very best. But right after that, if I could have two, I should like this other in the shade hat with the forget-me-nots wreath, and forget-me-nots dotted all over her dress. And, see! the sky-blue ribbon. If I could just have three, then I would take this one, too, with the black lace shawl over her head, fastened with roses, instead of a hat. She has such a lovely face! And after her I would choose this one in green—or this one in pink; no, this one here, Sally; just look—this one in green and pink. And you—if you could have more than one, which would you choose, after the red one?

Sally. Well, I guess I should choose this one in white.

Tibbie. Oh, no, Sally, don't you remember? That is the bride, the one I said the very first. You can have all the others, Sally dear, except the bride. But let's see, perhaps there are two brides. Yes!—no!—that is just a little girl in white, without a wreath. Should you like her as well? I was the first to say the bride, you know.

Sally. Law! I wouldn't have wanted her if I'd known she was a bride! I take this one, Tibbie—this one with feathers in her hat. Ain't she the gay girl in red and green plaid? And this purple silk one, and this red and white stripe, and this——

Tibbie. Wait! That's enough; Sally, that makes four for you. It's my turn now. If I could have five, I should take one of the rosebud ones—no, two of them, so's to play I had twins. Say, Sally, what if we could choose one apiece—first you one, and then me one, till we'd chosen them all up, and got fifty apiece!

Sally. What if we could! Wouldn't that be just grand! Tell us some more you'd take.

Tibbie [pointing and speaking at first slowly and meditatively, then more and more quickly]. I'd take this darling blue girl, and this yellow one, and this cunning little spotted one, and this, and this, and this, and this, and this—— Oh, Sally, if it was only real, and not just let's-pretend! Now it's your turn.

Sally [placing her forefinger pensively against the side of her nose]. For my fifth one, I choose her—her with the little black velvets run all through.

Tibbie [promptly]. Taken already.

Sally. Then her over there with the short puffy sleeves.

Tibbie. Taken!

Sally. She taken, too? Well, then, her in the pink Mother Hubbard, with the little knitting-bag on her arm.

Tibbie. Taken, Sally! Can't you remember anything? Those belong to me; I chose them long ago. These are the not taken ones over here; here, and here, and here, and here, and here, and here, and——

Sally. Aw, you're a great girl! [Suddenly throws her arms around Tibbie and casts herself back on the floor, where they tumble and roll in a frenzy of fun.] Oh, Tibbie, ain't we having a time of it?

Tibbie [almost shouting]. Yes!—ain't we having a time of it!

Sally. Ain't this a night?

Tibbie. Oh, yes,—ain't it a night! [They tickle and poke each other until almost hysterical. At last Tibbie disentangles herself from the panting and laughing Sally, and gets up.] Here, Sally, now stop laughing, and let's go on. It was your turn. You'd best take that one. She looks as if she might be a little girl of yours, her cheeks are so red—red as a great big cabbage! [Laughs till she nearly cries.]

Sally. Well, it's sure none of 'em has legs to make 'em look like children of yours! [At this Tibbie flings out her thin black legs with the action of a young colt, and drops to the floor, where they frolic as before. In the midst of their gale of mirth, a bell rings. They sit up, and look at each other in silent consternation.]

Sally [after a pause, in a solemn whisper]. Murder!

Tibbie [in her ear]. What is it?

Sally. Was it the front door or the back door?

Tibbie. I dunno, Sally. [Sally picks herself up, and casts a hurried glance on the dolls and about the room, to see if things are nearly as she found them, then turns down the light. Leads Tibbie to bedroom door.]

Sally [glancing at clock]. It ain't late. It ain't a bit later than I supposed. It can't be her! It might be Mrs. Bonnet, though, getting home before Catherine, who's got the key. I shouldn't want her to catch you here for the whole world. Look here, Tibbie. You stand in here till I find out who it is, and if it's Mrs. Bonnet, you'll have to stay hidden till I find a good chance to come and smuggle you down. [Pushes Tibbie through door, and exit by other door. Tibbie very cautiously pokes her head out and looks around.]

Tibbie. What's that scratching? I know there's a mouse here somewhere. Go right away, mousie. There's nobody in here. Go right away!

Sally [without. Her voice calm, and pleasant with a kind of company pleasantness]. Tibbie! It's all right. It's just a friend dropped in for a moment. You can play a little longer. Turn up the light carefully. But remember what I told you.

[Enter Tibbie at the first sound of Sally's
voice. Turns up the light, draws back the
curtain in front of the dolls, and kneels
before them. Takes up the bride with a
reverent hand, and after long contemplating
her, kisses her very seriously and tenderly.
Then moves the dolls about to
bring those she has chosen closer together.

Tibbie [meditatively]. I can't play they are a family, there are too many all the same age and all girls. I will play they are a hundred girls in an orphan asylum—a very rich orphan asylum—and that I am the superintendent. To-morrow I'm going to give each a beautiful doll for a Christmas present. This little girl's name is Rosa. That one is Nellie. That one is Katie. That one is Sue. And Mary. And Jennie. And Ethel, and Victoria, and Blossom, and Violet, and Pansy, and Goldenlocks, and Cherrylips—— Oh, dear, I know I can never name them all. There surely ain't enough names to go around and I'd just have to make up names for them. Kirry, Mirry, Dirry, Birry! These don't sound like anything. I wonder what they do every day in orphan asylums. They must have school and learn lessons, I guess. I'll be the teacher, now. Miss Snowdrop! [Tibbie assists the dolls to move, and answers for them in a squeaking little voice.] "Yes, ma'am." Spell knot. "N-o-t." Not at all, my dear. Sit down again, my dear. Miss Lily; stand up, miss, and see if you can do any better this morning. Miss Pansy, I see you putting your foot out to trip poor Miss Blossom. Don't you do that again, child, or I shall have to stand you in the corner. Why, Rosy, how red your cheeks are! Don't you feel well? "No, ma'am." Never mind, don't cry. I must take you to the doctor's right away. Come, my dear. [Goes to dresser and looks in glass.] Good-morning, doctor. "Good-morning, ma'am" [in a deep voice]; "you've got a sick child there, I see." Yes, doctor, this is a young lady from the orphan asylum, and she says she's got a bad pain in her face. "Yes, yes. I see, I see. Well, we'll give her something to cure those red cheeks right up. Just come here, miss." [Tibbie, as the doctor, powders the doll's cheeks very gently.] Very well. Good-by, doctor. "Good-by, ma'am. If she isn't better in fifteen minutes, let me know." Now, my dear, you needn't go back to school. The orphans might catch it. I'd like to rock you in my arms, but the superintendent is too busy.... Oh, dear, I don't like to be a superintendent. I think I'll have you for my little girl [draws forward a low rocker and carefully turns down light], and get you some nice little sisters [gathers a dozen dolls], and then rock you all to sleep. [Settles comfortably in the chair.] It's bedtime, and you must be rocked and loved a little. Now, sh! Sh! Sh! Sh! What's that, Mamie? Sing to you? Very well. [Sings.] Rosie, what are you crying for now? You want me to rock faster? All right, I will. [Rocks faster. Rosie continues to cry, and the rocking soon becomes furious. In the excitement one doll slips unnoticed to the floor.] There, that's better. Now, children, do go to sleep.... Mother is sleepy herself. [Rocking becomes slower and slower, and at last stops entirely. Tibbie falls asleep.... Enter Sally.]

Sally. Lively, Tibbie! Miss Catherine has got back. We must be packing off home. I declare I lost sight of the time. There's just no one like a fireman to be entertaining, I do declare. Mrs. Bonnet won't be long coming now. [Turns up light, sees Tibbie rubbing her eyes, and the dolls all disarranged. Blankly.] Law! do you suppose we can get them to look as they did? I hope t' Heaven she didn't know which went next to which. Do you remember, Tibbie, where they all belonged?

Tibbie. Yes, the bride went here. The rosebuds here. The purple and gray here. I can put them all back, every one.

Sally [cheerfully, again]. No one'll ever know in the world they've been disturbed. [Draws off to get general effect. Dives for the last doll, which Tibbie sleepily hands up from the floor.]

Sally [in a ghastly whisper]. Tibbie! look at its head! [Tibbie gazes in a puzzled way. The face is crushed. Sally groans.] Oh, Tibbie! now what'll we do!

Tibbie [truthfully, lifting a very pale face]. I didn't do it! I was just as careful! She was one of my daughters. I had her in my lap, rocking her to sleep with the others; she slipped off my lap—there were too many for one lap, I guess—but I didn't step on her. Sure, Sally,—sure as I live, I didn't step on her!

Sally. Oh, law! You must have rocked on her. Oh, Tibbie, what'll I do? Here, give her to me.... No, she can't never be fixed. I wonder if I can cover her up, here. [Moves the dolls about tentatively.] But what's the good? They'll count them, and there'll be the mischief of a fuss. Oh, Tibbie—— [reaching the end of her good-nature] ——why did I ever think of bringing you here? Now look at all the trouble you've brought on me, when I thought you'd be so careful! And I told you and told you till I was hoarse. And here you've ruined all! [Drops into a chair before the wreck. Tibbie, not daring to meet Sally's eyes, stands motionless and speechless.] I declare I don't know what to do! I wish I'd never seen 'em! I wish there'd never been any Christmas! Oh, it's a great job, this! Tibbie, you've done for me this time!

[Enter Catherine.

Catherine. Hurry, and get off, now, Sally.

Sally [blurts out]. She's broken one of them!

Catherine. You don't mean it!

Sally. Yes, she has!

Catherine. Let me see it. Oh, you wicked child! [Shakes Tibbie vigorously by one arm. Sally, attempting a rescue, seizes her by the other, and the poor child is jerked about unmercifully.] She's smashed its face right in! Now, whoever heard of such naughtiness?

[Tibbie escapes and twists about to get her
back to the two.

Sally. She didn't do it out of naughtiness, at all, Miss Catherine. She's as good a child as ever lived! [Tibbie's shoulders give a convulsive heave.] It was an accident entirely. But that's just as bad for me—I suppose I shall have to say it was me did it.

Catherine. And then they'll say what was I doing while the kitchen-help was poking about in the lady's chamber. No; you don't get me into no trouble, Sally Bean! You'd much better say how it was—how that you asked me if you just might bring a little girl to look, and I said you might, out of pure good-nature, being Christmas is rightly for children, and I've a softness for them. And while we was both in the kitchen, she slipped away from us, and come here and done it before we knew. And the child will say herself that it was so. You'll be packed off, dead sure, out of this place, if you let on you meddled with them yourself. She won't have her things meddled with—— There! I hear the door now. There comes that old cat Bonnet.

[Enter Mrs. Bonnet, her cheek bones and
the end of her nose brilliant with the cold.
She carries a paper bag, and speaks with
an impediment and a breath of peppermint.

Bonnet. What's the matter? What child is that?

Catherine. It happened this way, Mrs. Bonnet. I allowed Sally to fetch this child up to see Mrs. Darling's dolls.—Just for a treat, of course—never thinking Sally'd be so careless as to let one of them get broken. But that's what she done. I'd just stepped out for a moment, never for a minute supposing anything like this could happen, but you just see for yourself. That doll can't be mended no way at all. And now, Mrs. Bonnet, what's to be done?

Bonnet. Oh, you wicked little brat! I just want to get hold of you and shake you! [Makes a snatch at Tibbie, who gets beyond her clutch, and turns scared eyes on Sally.]

Tibbie [just audibly]. I want to go home; I want to go home.

Bonnet [bitterly]. It don't seem possible that I can run out a minute just to do an errand for Mrs. Darling herself—to get a spool of feather-stitching silk—but things like this has to happen. Catherine, I thought you at least was a responsible person, and here you has to go and——

Catherine [promptly]. Mrs. Bonnet, you just let that alone! Don't you try none of that with me! I went out of an errand every bit as much as you did. I went out to make sure the ice cream would be sent in good season for Christmas dinner, I did. Now I don't get dragged into this mess one bit more than you do!

Bonnet [looking at her with a poison-green eye]. Well, Mrs. Darling will be here in a minute, and then we shall see what we shall see. Land, ain't that woman been cross to-day, and fussy! 'Tain't as if she was like other people—a little bit sensible, and could take some little few things into consideration, and remember we're all human flesh and blood. Not much! She don't consider nothing, nor nobody, nor feelings, nor circumstances! She just makes things fly! Things has to go her way, every time!

Tibbie [pathetically, turning a trembling face to Sally]. I want to go home!

Bonnet [uglily]. No, you shan't go home! You shall stay right here and take the blame you deserve, after spoiling the face of that handsome doll. What do you mean by it, you little brat, you little gutter-imp!

Sally [with a boldness new in her relations with Mrs. Bonnet]. You let her alone, Mrs. Bonnet! Don't you talk to her like that! Anyone can see she's as sorry as sorry can be for what she's done, and all the trouble she's got us into—— [Cook appears in door.]

Bonnet. And what does that help, I'd like to know? The doll is broke, ain't it? And some one of us is going to catch it, however things go. You're a lucky girl, I say, if you don't lose your place. Some one of us is a-going to, I can easy foretell.

Catherine [firmly, with lifted chin]. I ain't going to lose my place! Here comes Cook now! I suppose she wants to get into trouble, too.

[Enter Cook, her high-colored shawl pinned
on her breast with a big brooch, her
bonnet-strings nearly lost in her fat chin.

Cook. What's the matter? What's it all about? Whose nice little girl is this?

Sally. I brought her here, Mrs. McGrath. She's Tibbie, a neighbor's child, and I brought her——

Cook. To see them beautiful dolls. Of course. And one of 'em happened to get broke? [Goes to Tibbie, and lifts her miserable little face.] Don't you feel bad one bit, darlin'! It was all an accident, and it's no good crying over spilt milk. And if Mrs. Darling gets mad at you, she ain't the real lady I take her for. Why, I gave my Clary a new doll this very evenin' and it's ready for a new head this minute. And did I go for to rare and tear about it? Not a bit of it! Why, bless you, she didn't go for to do it! Why, what child smashes a doll a-purpose? You're a pretty set, the whole gang of you, to pitch into a child! [Tries, with Sally, to comfort and silence Tibbie, who by this time is freely weeping. Exit Bonnet, and re-enter at once without hat and coat.]

Cook [looking hard at Mrs. Bonnet]. I've a great mind to stay here myself and stand up for her, yer pack of old maids, the lot of yer!

Bonnet. You will oblige me, Mrs. McGrath, by doing nothing of the sort. We've no need to have a whole scene from the drama. You've no business on this floor, anyhow, and I must insist on your keeping yourself in your own quarters.

Cook [mutters]. And I'll take my own time, yer born Britisher! [Putting her arm around Tibbie.] Well, Tibbie dear, you can be sure of this: however bad this seems, it'll soon be over. And if Mrs. Darling scolds, that'll soon be over, too. It'll all be looking different to you in the morning. However things goes, you'll soon be forgetting all about it. And to-morrow is Christmas Day, that our own dear Lord was born on, and I'll bake you a little cake and send it to you by Sally.

Tibbie [sobbing]. But Sally's going to be sent away.

Cook. So she might be, but I feel it in my little toe that she ain't going to be.

Sally [bravely]. Well, if I am, I am, and there an end. But I don't see why she can't take the price of the doll out of my wages and let me stay.

Bonnet. I think you'll find that it ain't most particularly the cost of the doll gets you into trouble—— There she comes this minute!

[All listen in profound silence.

Mrs. D. [below]. Good-night, cousin Dorel.

Mr. Goodhue [below]. Good-night, cousin Cynthia. Sleep well.

Mrs. D. You, too. Pleasant dreams. Good-night. [Sound of door closing.]

[Enter Mrs. Darling. Stands a moment at
door, regarding the assemblage with a sort
of absent-minded astonishment.

Mrs. D. What is it? Has anything happened? What is everybody doing up here? Whose little girl is this sitting up so late? They used to tell me I should never grow, my dear, if I sat up late——

Bonnet. This is what it is, ma'am. I took the liberty of stepping out for a few moments, it being Christmas Eve and my work all done, knowing you wouldn't be needing me till late. And Sally here took it upon herself to bring a child—how she could presume so, I'm sure I don't understand, ma'am. She might have known aforehand something would be broken. And sure enough—when I come in——

Mrs. D. Oh, cut it short! What you have to tell is that the child there has broken one of the dolls, isn't it?

Bonnet [mutters]. That's it, ma'am.

Mrs. D. And you've kept her here when she ought to have been in bed these hours, to bear the first burst of my displeasure—— [Mrs. Darling says so much in a hard voice, with an appearance of cold anger; here her voice suddenly dies, and she bursts out crying like a vexed, injured child.] I declare it's too bad! [She sobs, reckless of making a spectacle of herself, while all look on in consternation.] I declare it's too bad! It's no use! It doesn't matter what I do—it's always the same! It's always taken for granted that I will conduct myself like a beast. Who can wonder, after that, if I do? Here I find them, pale as sheets, the five of them shaking in their boots, because a forlorn little child has broken a miserable doll. And what is it supposed I shall do about it? Didn't I dress the hundred of them for children, and little poor children, too? And I must have known they would get broken, of course. Why did I dress them? What did I spend months dressing them for? Solely for show, they think,—not for any charity, any kindness, any love of children, or anything in the world but to make an effect on an occasion—to make myself a merit with the parson, perhaps! [Her crying seems to become less of anger and nervousness, and more of sorrow.] Oh, it is too bad! One would imagine I never said a decent thing or did a kind act to anyone. And, Heaven knows it's not for lack of trying to change. But no one sees the difference! I am treated like a vixen and a terror. And the people about me hate and fear and deceive me! A proof of it to-night. Oh, the lesson! Oh, I wasn't meant for this! I wasn't meant for it! When I think of last Sunday's sermon and how straight to my heart it went. Oh, I am a fool to cry! [Dries her eyes, and holds out her hand to Tibbie.] Come here to me, dear child. What is your name? What? A little louder! What did you say? Tibbie! Oh, what a nice, funny name! You didn't think I was going to scold you, did you, dear? Of course not! It was an accident; I understand all about it. I used to break my dolls' heads frequently, I remember very well. [Puts her arm about Tibbie and tries to make her head easy on her shoulder. Tibbie, however, cannot relax, and rests uncomfortably against her.] Let us see, dear, now, what we can do to make us both feel happier. I dressed all those dolls for little children I am not acquainted with at all. Which of them would you like the very best? Which should you like for your very own?

[Tibbie cannot move nor speak, but her eyes
travel towards the dolls.

Sally [comes beamingly to Tibbie's aid]. The bride, Tibbie, the bride!

Mrs. D. The bride? Which one is that? That one? Of course! [Reaches for it, and Sally hands it to her.] There, my dear. [Tibbie takes the doll loosely, without breath of thanks. Mrs. D. reviews the dolls, and Tibbie's hand is stretched involuntarily towards the broken one.] Of course, of course, you would want that poor dolly to nurse back to health. Now, dear, isn't there one more you would like? [Tibbie's confusion overwhelms her.] I'll choose one for you, and you shall call her Cynthia, after me. How would you like that? Suppose we say this one with the forget-me-nots? She looks a little like me, doesn't she, with her hair parted in the middle? Her dress is made of a piece of one of my own, and that blue is my favorite color. [Rising.] There, Tibbie, now you have two whole dollies, and part of another. You must run right home to bed. A Merry Christmas to you, dear child. I am very happy to have made your acquaintance.

Tibbie [shyly, but heartily]. I think you are good—good. And, please,—I'd like—if you wouldn't mind—I'd like to kiss you!

[Mrs. Darling bends suddenly, and catches
the child in her arms.

CURTAIN

NOTES ON COSTUME AND PRESENTATION

Mrs. Darling. Evening dress.

Bonnet and Catherine wear black, with white maid's apron, collar, and cuffs. Outdoor costume as indicated.

Mrs. McGrath. Shawl and bonnet with no attempt at prevailing styles. Stout, rosy, motherly, and comfortable.

Sally. Pretty and wholesome-looking. Appears at first in a limp blue kitchen-apron, later in her outdoor coat and hat, neat, but cheap-looking.

Tibbie. Old dress, very neat and clean, but faded, and with an outgrown, hand-me-down appearance. She is a thin and half-fed little tenement-house child, to whom the luxury of Mrs. Darling's house is an undreamed-of fairy-land.

This part was played by a little girl of nine, who delighted in learning and acting it. A bright and appreciative child can do it without undue effort, although it is, of course, the important rÔle of the play.

The Dolls. The number of dolls need not be over fifteen or twenty, if so arranged as to suggest more tiers hidden from view at the back of the couch. They should be as nearly of one size as is practicable, though uniformity goes no further. The broken one should be broken first, and Tibbie must slip it to the floor unnoticed before she sits down to rock the others.